She wants to cringe, shrink, recoil from the exasperation of which rolls off him, the waves of which she feels to border on the territory of scorn. She knows she had let him down, and her mother, and the Throat; but it didn't change what she had done, couldn't make up for what time was lost between them. Why should I regret? Why should she remain beholden to a father who didn't care for her, a mother who came and went like the wind? I shouldn't. And yet her ecstatic blood pulsed, pulled, coaxed her towards the antlered god with stern eyes and a sharp face, a planet orbiting the sun, ever wary of the flame but ever seeking it.

Gaucho shakes, the sound rippling through the thick air and cutting off her perpetuating thoughts of anxiety and apprehension, dismay and shame. Moonlight catches, clings, to his antlers, illuminating runes there.

Had they always been there? Were the details of him lost in time to her sprightly memory, or had he merely changed in her time spent away? The ground snaps into focus, and she quivers, pale skin shivering over sinewy muscle. Head tilts, bird-like, as ears flick and snap forwards, letting the sound of his voice, the rasp of his breathing, lull her into contentment and memories disappeared in the winter chill. It's easier this way, with voltaic blue trained on the rocky soil, examining every fleck of crystal and adornment of silver, than to look at him.

Zenobia wonders if she'll ever be able to redeem herself now as to look at him in the eye.

Stop. You're being selfish.
It shouldn't matter regarding their relationship. It never really had. Mother... Sohalia was another story, one that could be made up later. Right now, she should be focused on the present, ways to fix up the tattered mess father and daughter had become. Heart quails. Head up. Gaze fixed on his. I won't be afraid of a man I don't know. Won't be ashamed for someone who doesn't deserve my affection. A thin, eerie shiver runs down her from muzzle to tail, a subtle symbol of the electricity which hums, whines, whimpers, beneath alabastar skin. Childish whims urge her to zap her father; but she stays still. Silent. Soldiery. Listening.

Hiding away the emotions which burn beneath.
The ache which grows as he lists, rattles, charts off his children.
Wasn't one child good enough to screw up on?

"I..." the daughter of the warlord trails off, lets one hoof scuff over the ground. For the proud arch of her neck, the scintillating curve of her wings, she is still only a child. Only a girl. Eventually, she huffs, ruffling up her feathers. The words she wants to say tangles on her tongue; not that that's a bad thing. She's not sure he wants him to know everything. "A lot happening - happened - since I was leaving. I mean, left." Zenobia finally settles, propping up one hind hoof comfortably. "I want... to, like, make it up to you. And meet my family." The plea creeps in under her words anyways; a sigh, a longing, for what has been lost.

Just give me a chance.