Rhonan probably shouldn’t impress anyone. He doesn’t pry because he actually doesn’t care. He doesn’t give two shits who rules the Valley (or anywhere else for that matter) unless it’s life or death for him. He has no reason to care. The painted boy is just that, a boy. He doesn’t serve a kingdom, and certainly has no plans to serve the one he was born into. That may be the only thing he does care about. He’s no manservant. Screw that noise.
A meeting just sounds like work, sounds like aligning himself with some kingdom he’s not ready to align himself with. He’s not like Demian. The Valley doesn’t call to him (nor does anywhere else, for that matter). He’s here because the Valley called to his father, because that alone makes him wonder if he might fit in here. In the end, he doesn’t know if he’s cut out for kingdom life. Maybe he’ll be a meadow bum. Or a herd stallion, and collect himself some pretty mares. He has no idea. And really, he doesn’t think he needs to know. Not yet.
It’s not all that long, considering Rhonan’s bad timing, before a stallion with glowing jaguar marks finds him. In another other world, Rhonan might find those marks weird. But this is Beqanna, and it’s pretty normal to glow. “Rhonan,” he says, because he at least has managed to learn it’s polite to give his name. Though sometimes he forgets, or decides he doesn’t feel like it. “I kind of just wanted to check the place out. My dad used to live here.” This is only half an explanation, but it seems like more than enough to Rhonan. Words have never really been his strong suit.
rhonan.