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07-31-2012, 03:12 PM
 Like a spark catching flame, the sudden warmth exuding from the grey mare startles. Head up, Azalea watches in silence, but the change in demeanor likely means peace and not danger. This other mare is clearly half as starved for good attention as Azalea herself; rather than prance forward though the black mare stands withdrawn. The question linger on her tongue - more like a string of questions, some more secret than the rest. But Azalea senses something else forthcoming, something from the depths of the stranger's plum-colored eyes. The stranger's muzzle stretches out, and now Azalea's head retracts in silent rebuke. She is not a thing for touching; she is not a thing of easy warmth or kind words. She is quick to bask in the other mare's warmth, however, and with a quiet rustle of wings and a brief sidestep she answers with a nod. Isilme, the word rings quiet in her mind. How many years have passed? She turns away - a gesture of trust or dismissal? - even the black mare isn't quite sure. "Isilme," she repeats, her voice soft. "Yes." Blue eyes turn to study the grey flesh of the other mare, lingering on violet accents and wondering if such colors might breed anywhere outside Isilme. Azalea chances a smile, and her glossy wings rustle once more. "I was born in the Windswept Cliffs, raised there until... I was old enough to leave." Until the wars destroyed it, she thought, but bit her inner turmoil off. Isilme was done. Her history was done. It made no difference what she said now. "I have traveled much since then," she says more truthfully. "I wondered... what they call this land." Azalea |
