Abaddon exited the tunnel, at first slowly--slogging from the mud, tail dragging wet along his hocks--and then faster, lurching into a more excited trot. At last, they were leaving this hellhole; at least he'd be out of the misty muck and somewhere warmer, and somewhere hopefully dry.
"I have never been sick," he answered, part absently. He wouldn't know about cold making him sick; he just never had been, despite standing in the rain before. Maybe Carja was just a sickly thing, with a weak body? He couldn't tell, by looking. To him, his own experience must be the 'normal' one--Abaddon found it hard to conceptualize anything he had no direct experience in.
Cloven hooves drove into the mud as he propelled himself out of Cetus, a snort escaping him. "Show me the house. Show me axe," he decided, almost belligerent in tone, but really it was enthusiasm: a sort of excitement that was confident, now, in their escape from the swamp.
He looked to Carja. "Can you fly?" he asked, and considered. She did have wings. He hadn't been able to fly, in the mist--he'd have faceplanted a tree and fucking died. But now, loose in the tunnels? "I will not slow you down," he assured her--and crimson wings unfurled from his back with a soft wisping flap. Extra horns emerged from his face, ethereal and red, curling back along his jaws and skull, and Abaddon took flight: it was low to the ground, slower than Carja, the wings fading in and out. But they worked, and he would, at least, not have to run the entire way.