While the world slept, Lothíriel wandered.

She had slipped past the threshold of her mother's cave with resolve and caution, every step further away from her dam's side, a stride closer to freedom. Spindly legs had taken her down the winding mountain paths she had committed to memory solely for this night, following a trail of stars as she wound down to the valley and the lake, shimmering with ethereal light. Her eyes turned heavenward to watch the play of color which had been so bright during the night of her birth, and did she did not feel afraid or guarded, but at peace; tranquil, as if nothing could lessen the beauty of this night.

The filly moved onward.

In time, she reached the Basin, cool but tired despite the balmy night. Lush grass tickled her pasterns as she contemplated her next move: Lothíriel did not mean to disobey Mother, but curiosity had egged her on to explore the world at night. Insects buzzed and chirped, a glittering caravan of light-bugs clustering around her; settling in her mane, on her horn, until she seemed half a goddess. She smiled—yes, this was well worth the risk of getting caught.

Through a color-lit world she strode through, encouraged by the summer warmth and dancing lights above her. A pleasant wind brushed through the wisps of her growing pale mane, causing the bugs to scatter into the breeze. She did not feel desolate in this loneliness—nay, rather the contrary; the wonders of the night filled her with awe, with fascination, leaving no room for hard-wrought feelings. She closed her eyes and sighed, savoring this delicious moment.

But something was amiss.

Eyes opened, and Lothíriel sniffed softly: her suspicions were confirmed. There was a stranger in their midst; she could discern its abnormality from the sweet, clean smell of the Basin and all its inhabitants. There was a new question posed to her: should she retreat? Should she reveal her suspicions to Mother? Or should she confront this intruder by her lonesome, so vulnerable to attacks?

It did not take much contemplation.

Within moments, an inky form sliding through the half-lit darkness was evident, but there was something irrevocably strange about this stranger. She watched him in silence for a time, comfortably swathed in the night, though the pallor of her hair, the faint glitter of her eyes and the brightness of her half-grown horn would have easily given her away. The girl could not say what made this stranger so strange; she narrowed her eyes and studied him. He had no horn. He had no horn. Lothíriel could have gasped. Mother had told her about these creatures, though she had described them with a fondness and gentleness that the filly could not sum up at this moment. Her tail gave a contemplative swish, and she found herself moving toward him. There was a certain graveness to her features which seemed so misgiving to its youthful, delicate features, the swirling colors of the borealis dancing through her eyes. Pale night-flowers sprung in her wake, leaving a glowing trail which underlined the child's otherworldly appeal. She approached him. "You have no horn," Lothíriel observed coolly. It was not unheard of that a unicorn may lose a horn in battle, though they were often shunned as others, as untouchables. The girl paused, wary of this nighttime intruder. "You're not supposed to be here."

& when she walks, her footsteps sing a reckless serenade.