His hooves thud rhythmically on the ground and his stalk eyes scan the woods, the way behind them, the sky. It's dark enough here in the woods that breaking into a run might be more dangerous than a fast walk, but he wants to, like he could outpace his own brain. The great thing about so laboriously flying and sharing his psyche with a big animal's instincts had been that they'd driven out most thoughts, which are coming back now.

<Yes, they are a problem. I think their poor coordination is likely the best angle to approach them from... that song though, that makes any handling of them much more difficult. Ideally with exposure comes tolerance, as with anything I can sing, but we can't expect the ideal situation, can we?> His voice is tight with revulsion and self-hatred. Alloran's delicate hands flick and wring, signing something that he repeats in thought-speech. <Disgusting. Disgusting.>