Carnesîr sees her, a dancing seraph, a maiden of flowers, festooned with petals in her mane and blossoms at her cleft hooves, the rays of the moon embellishing the silver-cerulean of her coat. He watches her, him a distant guardian, a far-flung vigilante, supervising her when her mother or father could not. They have rarely spoken, if ever; but doubtless she knows of him- or has noticed him- the silent sentinel on the horizon, a coward watching over the courageous. A smile dances on his lips as she waltzes and frolics, with all the seamless grace of an elvish girl, and then he begins downwards from the rise, with the thought in mind to cavort with her, to run and play, him acting as child, under the dying sunlight.

He races downwards from the rise of hill, towards the belly of the valley, the wind playing with his mane and fingering the softness of his weak flesh. For a moment, he is fearless, a soldier, a warrior, a fighter, starved of adrenaline, waiting for the rush to snatch him up; and then he is just a craven running head-first down a mountain, his legs all a-tumble beneath him.

Whatever ghosts of courage were in his chest deserts him.

The ground flattens beneath him, the impregnable mountains turning into smears of dusty gray blurring into the azure sky. Still he moves too fast, legs hardly able to cope with the strain on his tendons and joints, sweat beginning to wet his neck and dampen his muzzle. Her figure is growing ever larger in his vision, ever more prominent, until all he can see with round eyes is Loth's iron coat and onyx points; and he skids, hooves clawing at the lush verdant grass, digging them in deep in a desperate attempt to prevent himself hitting the flower maiden. Carnesîr tosses his head, straining to lift his suddenly much too dangerous horn above her slim body, a horrific image of him piercing her through the head looming in his mind's eye.

His body twists, a smile lighting his sooty lips. "Lothíriel," he murmurs, tipping his head thoughtfully, reaching out in hopes to brush his muzzle to hers. "Do you know who I am?"

Carnesîr turns, a familiar voice interrupting the moment between them. It is the girl he recognizes, hardly more than a little child herself- and yet he cannot quite conjure the feelings of sensuality and sexuality atwixt them again, finding it difficult to overcame the selfish wish he could have had a moment longer with the flower girl alone. Nonetheless, he finds a greeting in the back of his mind- "Frost Fyre, it's good to see you."