Moonspear Child of Dust

Antares knew well what it looked like. A discerning eye wouldn't miss the similarities between him and his family--colored so very like his mother, and while his personal bearing was a bit different, it still fell in line with the mold the other Ostregas made. Clearly, cut from the same cloth and testament to his line as the mountain made them, for any of those who might be familiar.

First after the mindful deference he received, he replied with a quiet nod, then turned his ears up to listen while he observed. The willingness for company (a role which he could provide, said a knowing hint of a smirk), a name, the Firebirds, training--all solid confirmation to the trickles of facts he gleaned from his parents, and he appreciated the details in full. Antares slid a length or so closer, still subtly measuring the other yearling in his earthen shades, with his molten eyes. The scars on his muzzle, too. Now it all could match to a name, at the very least.

I'm Antares, he said, gently canting his head. How much else needed said? The Ostrega stepped forth then beside him, taking the invitation to walk on. Born here, as you may have guessed, he matched. So what do you train for? he asked, his suspicions already leaning in one way, but Bronco seemed open enough to answer him without qualm.