cassiopeia
The star breather was restless, as seemed to be typical of the roaned matron. She gazed out stoically across the oasis, moonlight draped across amber acres like a cobweb leaching color from all it touched. With each stride there came a modest spray of granular gold. The gravelly sonance it produced served as the only sound to be heard in the midst of the night apart from the tenuous acoustic of her breath as each erupted from her maw.
Azulee had fallen asleep with her father who had soon too allowed sleep to transcend, the venue of their slumber overhung by the fronds of low-lying palms. Cassiopeia had laid still, pools of thoughtful cyan peering up toward the stars, silent. They beckoned to her like discarded jewels; small tatters in the otherwise unflawed black velvet of space. Quietly she had risen, not intending to awaken the pair beside her, and wandered listlessly through the desert. Her destination? Nowhere in particular.
After having roamed for a short while - even having inadvertently fiound her way to the place where the Seer's fire had once been, then dormant with the banishing of its divine tenant - she had almost instinctively arrived back at the oasis lake. The night was still young: it was about midnight, and the lunate curve of the moon was like a florescent sliver of ice strung from the stars. The night was cold, as it often was at this time of year. Where Frostfall was but a frail notion during the hours of daylight, it saw fit to establish its reign in the hours in which the sun had long been absent from the sky, its warmth waning.
Russet rocks clicked lightly beneath her hooves as she approached the pool. A dulcet scent then wafted its way unto her and Cassiopeia's legs quit pumping, her nose lifted as she inhaled the scent once again. It was a feminine fragrance; one of cacti and moss. The star breather snorted, tossing her head ever slightly.
The one who had exuded such an aroma stood not far away and Cassiopeia studied her mutely for a moment. She was a relatively short individual - not quite stocky but there was a certain brusqueness about her physique that alluded toward some sort of camouflaged strength. Her head was drooped solemnly and she stared into the pool of water below her seemingly at her own reflection, melancholy. The gilded tendrils of her mane tumbled chaotically about her copper face - smooth, blonde curls. She was young, perhaps not a day over three: just barely a woman; yet, plainly, that's what she was.
The dark mistress nickered softly but did not approach. She peered toward the stranger with her head lowered disarmingly. "Mind if I join you?" She asked, smiling thinly.
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Give Me the Gift of Sight [Cassiopeia]
