As with all of the lucky children (those fortunate enough to avoid deformity in the womb), the woman did once have the chance to be beautiful. She ruined herself though, with a single (albeit very terrible) decision that was made during the impressionable stage of her youth. The ensuing punishment for her actions are what made her (truly it is not entirely she that is to blame) into what she is today; a minuscule fragment of the “could haves and should haves but did not”. Rather than a single dominant feature, her previous herd gifted her with countless scars that immediately barter for attention on her skin. The marks of horns, hooves, teeth, claws, magic – visible reminders to any and all of her transgressions. Her tail is now absent entirely, torn from her by her own father, and her left ear is gone as well, ripped away by a member of her previous herd.

Stories of the attack need not be spoken for the ease with which it can be imagined by appraising her tarnished skin. Her scars a strong testament to the intentions of those who created them. The punctures of horns dot her like dapples, but upon closer inspection they are more like shallow craters along her sides and neck. Clear imprints of circular hooves (some cloven, some not) litter her skin, scorched in places from those of the elemental variety, others appearing to be perpetual contusions that hurt no more. Marks of teeth scour her as well, those of the equine variety along her spine and those of their carnivorous companions on her limbs; it is by some miracle (or perhaps a curse) that she is not lame. Her tail is now entirely absent, as well as her left ear.

The wounds from claw and magic are the worst though – that which blinded her and that which leaves her hairless on the lower half of her hind legs. Wickedly curved, the claws of a falcon sought to gouge her eyes from their very sockets on that fateful day, its’ tactical approach from above managing to avoid her still-growing (at that time) horns. He did not manage to rip the once sunset-colored orbs from her, but the extensive damage to her tissue led to an eventual (and very painful) loss of her vision. There are also the marks of a lioness’ claws on her rear; it let itself drag with claws embedded as she fled before finally being kicked off by a last-ditch effort well-timed buck on the uphill. And finally, the continued use of fire magic against her has licked away the hair from the lower portion of her hind limbs. They made her dance in the flames, rearing away from the horror of their onslaught before she managed to escape.

Existing now as a breathing, stumbling reminder that (no matter the age) a murderer will face the ultimate consequences, Nava has managed to retain a semblance of what might have been. There is adequate daintiness to her hesitant steps, a fleeting reminder to her femininity, that which also gives her shapely hips and an elegant arch of neck. A reminiscent image of her late mother, Nava inherited Ayelet’s lengthy limbs and slender build. Ironically, Nava is blood bay in color with uneven white sabino markings on her stomach, limbs and face. Pink tinges the most tender parts of her, encasing her velveteen muzzle and barely visible in between her hind legs. Arguably the most beautiful part of her, the mare’s mane (straight and silky) is of medium length, and black in color with a white section at its center. Milky blue eyes stare blankly at the world, lids ruined but functional, though it is not often that she remembers to blink since she cannot feel the area anymore.

Supposedly, external scars are the reflection of the internal, but for Nava there is no measurable comparison. Eternally haunted is she by the blurred visions of her past, of the memories that refuse to fade despite her deepest efforts. Truly these reflections are only brief snippets, incomplete but frequent reminders of a mistake that she will regret for the rest of her days. Nightmares plague her at any session of rest, no matter how brief it may be, which results in many sleepless days to fuel her madness. Post-traumatic stress disorder is her primary ailment, a partial contributor of a crippling anxiety disorder. Inherently afraid of everyone she comes into contact with, outburst of irrationality are a probable reaction to socializing. Terrified of harming those around her, and of coming into contact with those of her homeland, the mare tries her best to ward off company before they can find the pity that always comes.

A meek and quiet thing, so much so that one might believe her tongue to have been ripped from her mouth, Nava does not speak unless directly spoken to. When she can bring herself to speak, it is in clipped sentences, her words inevitably tripping over themselves in a ruthless stutter. There is no shame in this, for she feels entirely deserving of her continued suffering – oh, the woman believes she deserves so much more. Her father tells her so often, the barest whispering of his voice ingrained into her mind, his hatred burned into her very soul. Still, there lurks a childishness somewhere deep within, an inquisitive nature that was not properly tended to due to a stolen childhood. There is a great sense of immaturity about her, as though she never truly learned about the world before it collapsed upon her.

Once upon a time, her mother Ayelet (and the herd that loved her) tried to raise Nava to be a demure lady of the herd. Well-groomed was to be her future, educated in the histories of her ancestors, in different languages, in magic, in anything she wanted. Proper would be her speech and humble would be her disposition, abiding by the laws and giving selflessly for the betterment of the civilization that she was born into. But Nava was led astray early in her life, having been allowed by her mother to visit her father whenever the girl wanted. For what good mother would keep her child away from its’ father, even if that man had walked out at the barest whiff of pregnancy? Lucius, aptly named in such a sinister manner, was a writhing snake from the moment Nava met him (though being so young, she did not yet know), and Ayelet would have done good not to trust him.

But what good mother, who gave her child so much of herself and more, would assume it would be her own daughter to kill her?

Nava’s time spent with her father was not without his own form of education. A silver tongue was his favored tool, coaxing his little girl to love the thrill of defying her previous lessons, twisting the young mind to prefer being dirty rather than clean. Nava remembers clearly that fateful day, the murder of her own mother with her own horns and the brutal attacks that followed. For this child was no member of the herd after she had killed her own mother, their precious Ayelet. Hearing her scream, they sought to rescue her, but by the time they arrived it was far too late. Caught red-horned (pun definitely intended) and stunned into stillness, the girl had no chance of escaping without injury. She is lucky to have escaped at all.

It was Lucius, the man to blame for it all, who finally stepped away from the trees and into the fray when her eyes were permanently damaged. Having harnessed the power of plague long before, he unleashed it upon the equines and their full-sized companions, bringing them to their knees, giving Nava a chance to flee. Having put (what she considered to be) a decent enough distance between herself and her home, the filly collapsed to rest and begin her eventual recuperation, or to give in to death. A strange traveler (a God in disguise) came upon her, bestowing upon her the gift of a necklace. A glass rose hung from the slender but strong chain, encasing the last drops of Ayelet’s blood. Shortly after, an elderly mare found Nava's disfigured and grotesque body, healing her in the hopes that the filly would survive. And she did, though often she wishes that she had not.

Lucius was not finished with her yet; he was intent on finishing the job that the now-dead herd could not. Nava fled, the death of the elder mare now on her conscious as well, for he tells her that it is her fault for the carnage. Giving chase, it is her father who tears her tail from its roots, infuriated by her broken spirit. What happened to his lessons of the assassin? He sees it flare to life, for she cannot escape with wounds reopened and new ones caused; she turns to fend him off, her horns piercing an artery in his neck. Nava does not know if her father survived that day, for she left him bleeding on the ground, turning snow into wine.

Finally, after everything, she wonders after a few months if finally the entire ordeal is over. But soon she finds herself meeting the mare that she killed. By now her vision is gone, having faded in her time with the elder, but once she recognizes her mother's voice, Nava flees with guilt nipping at her hocks her.

Hoska plays Nava.