She didn't believe in luck, or fortune, or kismet, or, y'know, whatever else you wanted to dub that voodoo stuff. Her feet were planted firmly in foundations of logic -- in what she could smash to smithereens and blast to bits. Or electrify. It all depends on how angry she was {and how much her victim offender deserved to be electrocuted.} Anything else, well, let's be honest here: that was something for her mother to muse over with the ghosts she summoned from time to time. Zenobia didn't understand the Sultana's peculiar ability, or necessarily why she would want it -- but she didn't idolize her mother any less for her eccentricities.

Yet that chaotic storm of thought is quite beside the tip of the iceberg; as she flies, her wings pushing and pummelling the air rather haphazardly, she cannot help but wonder how the fuck -- by the Sun God, she feels bad. I'm not supposed to swear, the daughter of the Throat's once-rulers thinks; she knows such behaviour is vulgar. As far as she knows, even Gaucho doesn't drop f-bombs; at least, he didn't in front of her. It was probably part of some warrior code of chivalry.

Then again, she didn't want to be some valiant knight prancing off to battle with his puffed-up chest.

Even though she was small, she just wanted to the big-ass, mob-queen bitch. Nobody messed with electric monsters who could zap anyone, at, like, any time, and they definitely wouldn't want to mess with HER! They would be all, like, "that's Zenobia!" She didn't want to be feared, exactly... just, she wanted to be a hero. With her sparkly blue eyes and zappy wings, she would scare all the bad guys away. And even better than that? Her parents would be proud of her.

It wasn't as if they disapproved of her. Sohalia seemed proud of her more often than not... and as for dad... well... he was kind of an absentee father. It was simply that the hoofprints they left behind were big.

Wings cup and cradle the warm air as she descends, voltaic eyes glistening -- she doesn't remember it, not like this. Barren sands, red and hot, the jaded tree in the distance, the faint scent of charred brush -- it's familiar, in the same way she could pick out the curling crescents of Gaucho's antlers or the swooping angles of Sohalia's wings in a crowd. And yet, the prospect of landing seems enormously difficult {more so than for the usual reasons.} The thoughts sit quiet in her skull, pushing against the seams, and yet she can't quite hear them at all, any more than she can pinpoint the reason it seems so bizarre; and it isn't until she touches down and feels the familiar, faint tickling of her magic flaring up that she realizes why: she's alone.

There's no mother, no father, no chaperone -- just her in this vast wilderness stinking of the sun and reeking of unfamiliar bodies.

And so she finishes her original question.
How the fuck did the Throat just change shape like a tubby pony losing weight?