She walks between the two daughters of the earth, one born with the birthrights of a queen and the other a lost child, thankful for the silence of the young, white eyed princess and keenly listening to the words of the painted one she had invited here on a whim. The red and white butterfly is nervous, the Lady notes, watching the way her ears endlessly dance in search of swords and foes, and she wonders why it is that the girl is still so nervous after coming so deeply into the herd land; surely she has seen the way that the others they have passed glare upon her disfigurements, heard the sharp tongue that lashes at her heart from the young lips of Jorogumo, but surely she has also noticed that not a soul has moved to disturb them since the golden Lady arrived to take her on this walk.

They arrive to the knoll of queens and she pauses, glancing to the child just as she nods in accordance to Illynx’s assumptions that she is one of the lost ones. That the girl’s father is one she met once long ago on the Steppe is unknown to her, and perhaps would have led her to some insight as to this child’s nature. Castiel had been kind, overly so, the sort to rush headlong into love and never look back, not even when that which brought him such joy drove a spear through his heart.

She stands in the snow with the wind whispering through her dark hair, her face a soft frown as she looks down towards the moon eyed girl who called her Kisaki, empress, a single brow arched upwards as if to say there is a reason for all my madness, little sparrow, to rule out all the black damsel’s confusion as to what was coming to pass here. Little by little, the pieces fell into place. A pause of silence fills the air, one in which the mountain sings its snow song to them while thoughts trickle like half frozen water though their minds.

And then the girl speaks again, the Wanderer, and Illynx turns to look upon her with golden eyes that pity the girl that fate has ruined so completely. There is hope for her, still, and it is spoken aloud from those lips, the golden mare nodding subtly as she recalls a certain Engineer with power over metals. She must ask him sometime if it is possible to fix what the universe has left un-whole; surely it will be easier if the girl crafts herself a horn of glass as she says she will.

"I feel sorrow for you, our lost sister," she explains, voice sweet, flavored with her usual acidic sugar, "but I cannot help you, as you are now. Return here when you wear this horn of glass. I might have ways to bring to light the rights that fate stripped you of, but only then." A more serious gleam finds its hold on her face, ears erect and neck arched gracefully as she looks down on the Arabian filly. "I ask only for your loyalty, in exchange. Send me my brothers and sisters you find wandering, lost or new within Helovia, and bring me word of what transpires outside my wintry halls."

Her smile is delightful and worthy of trust, a disgusting mask that hides her selfishness behind glitter and prettiness.

"In exchange, I’ll give you a true horn."

@[Abishia]

There was a river once,
with many round stones
enchanted by shallow hopes
of embracing the ocean;
water is peculiar this way,
how its life is a line
that cannot bend or change
without the approval of its bed.