Bitterroot Valley a song note

no one had yet been discovered. felaróf was perturbed by this. it seemed this world was stamped with all manner of track but his own. and the wolves commanded the realm. 

despite these two blows to his intentions, the stallion found that being alone leant itself to good grazing. he settled in a valley, beneath the warm breath of a brave springtime day, and fell to exploring the various grasses. from time to time, felaróf lifted his head to search for any sign of the savage denziens, but kept himself amused with chewing and various mutterings about the putrid nature of his neighbors.

He's never seen anything like it; a pale beast, elegant like a deer yet taller, sturdier. Different. He's been following from a distance for some time, crouched close to the ground with careful steps, simply watching for now. His first thought had been that the creature might make a good meal, if he could get @Kratos's help — but now that's far from his mind. Whatever this thing is, it's too large for the two of them, and way more interesting to watch anyway. He creeps forward, hoping to get closer, but the beast lifts its long head just then. He goes still, breath catching, and lowers himself further until his belly brushes the ground. The last thing he wants is to be seen.

narmo. and close. too close. the stallion swept his amber eyes over the brush, tensing as any creature would in such a tooth-haunted world. "show yourself," came the demand of his tongue in accented common. his eyes were not made for the crouch of fanged beasts, only their movements.

felaróf refused to return to his grazing, muttering once more as he shook his mane in irritation and reared to stamp the ground with furious warning. the peal of the mearas' horn drove from his throat, a thundering sound that echoed upon the taiga.

The beast seems to grow wary, and Zephyr prepares for a hasty exit. He's not ready for a premature death under those intimidating hooves. But then it speaks. A strange way of speaking, but he can understand it. He freezes, stunned. He's not sure how he really feels about it yet, but at the moment his reaction is pretty much just 'What the fuck?'
After a few seconds, though, the shock wears off — and the only thing he can really do is what the odd creature requested. He's far too curious to turn away now. What are you? He demands as he rises and starts a slow, wary approach, tail flagging. He keeps a certain distance between them even as he draws nearer, casting suspicious glances toward the hooves he has no desire to meet up close.

shrewd gaze watched as a predator straightened into eyesight. slender little thing, wasn't it? not any threat to he who was blessed by the valar.

"one of the mearas, horselord, wild-runner," the stallion answered, hiding the small sigh of frustration. this son of wolves had not seen his kind before, and it bode badly for his current search. all would be well, felaróf told himself. the land was vast.

"to you i am a horse. and you are a wolf. now come here. let me look properly at you," the regal demanded firmly, approaching with the docile plod of an intrigued ruminant.

The experience feels surreal, in a way, enough to make him forget to be irritated with it. A horse. He has so many questions; where do such creatures come from, and do all of them speak that way? They must be related to deer somehow, and he's never heard one of those speak. The command makes him bristle a little, but he reluctantly complies, watching closely for any sign of aggression in the other's approach. Mearas? He echoes, a clumsy mimicking of the word. You look like a big hairy deer.

nares flared with indignation, but the horselord kept himself still. "a large boast from so scrawny a warg," he shot back. in the next moment, however, his ears swiveled forward and a low chuckle echoed in the barrel of his chest. "i am no deer. i am arrassendil. friend to deer." 

felaróf shook out his "hairiness;" it unfurled into a pale banner that scrolled silkenly in some unseen wind. "what is your name, ráca?"

Amusement flickers in his gaze briefly. The insult might have been irritating, if Zephyr didn't know he deserves it. Do deer make good friends? He asks, entertained by the thought.
He's starting to catch on to the hints of a second language, even with his relative inexperience. The accent might have been an immediate clue, but he's never had the opportunity to make that connection; his mothers' version of French had been accented by the common tongue rather than the reverse, though he doesn't know that. His gaze catches briefly on the rippling waves of the horse's mane, and he feels the sudden inexplicable urge to buy Dove shampoo, until he remembers that he doesn't know what that is. Name's Zephyr. Yours? And what does that word mean? The last one. This time, he doesn't even bother trying to pronounce it.

felaróf appeared to mull the question over before answering. "they do. they bring the same thing for dinner but they are good folk all the way through."

"i am felaróf," the stallion answered, swatting an early gnat away from his flank with flywhisk tail. "a pleasure to make your acquaintance, master zephyr," he greeted. "it means man among wolves."