The daughter of the Wildfire drifts above the narrow peninsula, wings outstretched and spread taut. With but a mere twitch of her primaries, she soars upwards, leaping from one thermal to the next with an almost feral grace- her raw movements controlled only by instinct. She exudes ferocity, glows with passion- made of ash and pearl, bone and scorching flame. Perhaps if she could see herself now, so clearly the daughter of Gaucho and Sohalia, a striking warrior in her own right, she might be more at ease in her own skin.

And for a moment, lulled by the harmonious serenading of the wind knotting it's fingers in her mane and caressing her outspread wings, she does feel comfortable, fierce, untameable, as she damn well should; but when she opens her eyes once again, reality kicks in. She was nothing- less than nothing- in comparison to her parents (king and queen! Sultan and Sultana!) No matter how hard she tried to change that, to steer herself away from their ominous and imposing shadows and the horseshoes they left her, she could not forget them, could not forget their legacy. Skills were honed, sharpened, forged, as she made temper into zealous warfare, transitioned from juvenile foot soldier to gladiator of steel and flesh- and yet she still felt the weight of her parents on her shoulders.

Some deep and sickly part of her longed for their disappearance, for her to wear the crown and hold the sceptre (ambition of the worst kind), to no longer be only their daughter instead of herself; but most of her clamoured for their love, their adoration, their approval.
If only she knew how to get it, how to stop disappointing them.

The wind stings at her eyes and she blinks back a dampness, eyelids pressing close together to block out the worst of the breeze. It tastes of salt here, like ocean and kelp and rotting things, even a couple miles up above the water; if not for the humid feel to the sea air, she might've mistaken it for the Dragon's Throat.

Zenobia begins to descend, meandering towards soil and earth once again. Her trajectory is not aimless, however; she intends to land towards the desecrated shrines, the ruined altars to gods whom have instead taken to roaming the lands. Those places, these places, bruised and battered, shrines of prayer ruined and smote down by the deities they worshipped, she could not forget. There still lingered here a promise of magic, a taste of witchcraft, and despite the absence of the divine, it felt like they were listening.

Hooves scrape on rock and stone as wings back-beat. Down she goes, staggering clumsily upon landing; she had not realized how long she had been gone among the clouds, and now her legs are reluctant to respond as they should, weak around the knees and softer along the fetlock. Silly of you. If there was anything lurking about, it wouldn't be easy to run- nor would it be easy to take-off again, with the lactic acid keen to begin building up in the sinuous muscles of her shoulders.
But you're a warrior, Zenobia reminds herself, and on that note she drifts closer to the shrines, cherubic appendages rustling to align along her pearly flanks.

Underneath the bright light of the midday sun and a bluebird sky, the altars are... menacing, almost. Not friendly. Perhaps it's because she just hasn't prayed enough; or maybe, there's a more legitimate reason for it. What it might be, Zenobia never could've guessed- that was a question for her mother to ponder with her ghosts.

Nostrils flare as she exhales, lowering her head, peering through jaded lashes at Ra's shrine. She wishes she could fix them, somehow; even though the gods are happy and roaming, it doesn't seem right to have them all in such states.

Tentatively, the young daughter tries to blow away the ash from the Sun God's shrine, but beneath it is only coal.