You can never go back

The dusky spring sun filtered weakly through the branches, dimly lighting the floor of the forest. Birds chirped in the lower branches, going from cheerful melody to aggressive chatter from one moment to the next, volatile rather than soothing. The cacophony embodied the spirit of the forest, the harsh undercurrents beneath a haunting exterior. Old as time, the trees stood silent vigil, judging those beings who lived beneath them. And Oriole raged against that immeasurable pressure, the memory of his ancestors etched into the very trees around him. They disapproved, but he was King now. His will was law and all of that, so ancestors be damned. This was his legacy to waste.

And if he wanted to take in misfits from the North, he'd damn well do it. It wasn't that he particularly had an issue with Bazil Rayne or her dealings, though he knew she did not feel the same. That was the issue with him, at times - he acted impulsively, not because he necessarily had ill will. Sometimes, in the moment, it was just... fun. To go against the grain. To incite when he'd normally choose peace. To be cruel when he'd only ever shown kindness. Well. Regardless, when someone stumbled upon his borders, he wasn't inclined to turn them away regardless of past crimes. He didn't ask questions, because he didn't particularly care. He wasn't one to live in the past, not when the present was so much more interesting.

The whinnying call rang through the massive trees, Oriole's dark-tipped ears swiveling lazily before his head followed suit. Oriole enjoyed being King, but became sour nearly immediately when actual leading was required of him. He didn't want to answer, but as the occasional calls came closer and stayed insistent, Oriole made his way toward the sound. When he was close but just out of sight, he could hold his tongue no longer. "Yes, alright, I'm here," he said shortly, slowing to a stop as the other paint came into view. While inwardly he was akin to a petulant child told to pick up their toys, outwardly Oriole always managed to have an air of authority about him. He looked over the stallion, whose name he did not remember - the one from the North. The wounds on his body were still healing, a sore and visible weakness. Dark eyes rose from there inspection, a questioning air about him. "Is there something you need?" he asked, less short and more curious now that they were face-to-face. He had been bored, after all - this would be more interesting than listening to the birds squabble. He hadn't asked many questions when the stranger had shown up, and he didn't actually care enough to pry, but he couldn't lie and say he didn't want to know what caused those wounds - especially in Bazil Rayne's kind yet secluded North.

Ah, a timid one. "Y..you have been kind in allowing me to stay within your land despite my lineage sir. I.. I just came to offer myself to your Kingdom, should you find that I may be useful to you in some way. P..per..perhaps I might be able to earn my keep within your herd?" He searched his mind for the name of the stallion, but unfortunately his casual memory was uselessly lazy and all he could remember was that this was some relation of the Northern Queen. A younger relation obviously, probably not of note to the hierarchy, but who knew? While Oriole didn't tend to have a lot of patience for the meek and weak-hearted by default, this colt had a story - and for someone so young, that in and of itself was interesting. So he gave the kid some slack, lowering his head a little and watching him with calculating eyes.

"Hmmm," he hummed after a long moment, calculation sliding easy into mischief. "So what do you have to offer me, kid? Not you're fighting skills," he mused, looking pointedly at the unhealed wounds. Perhaps it was cruel, salt in the wounds, but he was who he was. He wasn't going to chase the colt out, after all, so he'd at least have his fun while he could.

Oriole had a particular skill: finding the right buttons to push to edge someone from completely respectful to a little bit irritated. It took them out of the realm of politely boring into showing some of their actual personality, for better or worse. Oriole saw the colt's eyes tighten nearly imperceptibly, his voice carrying just the slightest bit of bitterness. But he actually comported himself well, Oriole found, and he only really picked up the changes because he was like a gleeful child and enjoyed scrutinizing the effect his words had. He was self-centered in that way.

"Yes well, circumstances and all that. I do actually have some close-quarters combative training. But, what I am best at is tracking and finding plants that help heal." In all honestly, Oriole hadn't taken the time to scope out the talents of the trickling remains of the herd that hadn't evacuated when his parents died, so this was probably a step in the right direction. Jokes aside, the colt was alive, which proved himself more or less to Oriole as far as toughness. The rest didn't really matter. Oriole lifted his head a bit, regarding the dun colt with a discerning eye. "That's fair enough. I need scouts to work the perimeter, welcome newcomers with a friendly face and all of that. You seem better suited than I am, scars and all. If you want to collect plants and what-have-you in the meantime, be my guest." Oriole respected healers - few children grew up without a that- but he had much more use for a young, healthy guard than a herbworm with his nose to the dirt.