when I pretend everything is what I want it to be

I look exactly like what you had always wanted to see

Once the boundaries of the Basin had been left far behind, Roland slowed to catch his breath. It seemed impossible, completely out of the question, to travel so far; and yet, he could pay no mind to his own wellbeing when the thought of Lena trapped behind the mirror drove him forwards. Guilt had wedged itself like a blade into his heart, and he cursed himself over and over again, a chorus in the back of his mind as he stumbled down the pathway, willing strength back into his legs. Magic was not worth the struggle it so often required. It was not worth putting those he cared for in harm's way, not worth the damage it caused. He would never forgive himself for daring to hope that he could come away with something valuable and remain unscathed.

He had not forgotten the creature's parting words, replaying her last riddle over in his mind in hopes that he might find some missed instruction within their midst. New looks... Had she given him what he had wished for, what he had searched for?

It was surprisingly easy to draw to a halt on the edge of the path and concentrate, let a new image unfold in his mind and feel a strange ethereal pull, a tidal ripple that coursed over the entirety of his body, and when he looked down it was not to the same bronze sight that had always greeted him, but to a coat of white, and wings upon his sides. They unfolded awkwardly, the sensation of new appendages not quite tangible, like an untrained puppeteer tugging on the strings of his marionette. And when he tried to fly- an incredibly awkward process for one who had not been raised in the art- he found that his wings would not catch the air, that they were not so much a new part of him, grown and woven from the magic he now possessed, as they were a cunning illusion. It was equally as exhilarating as it was daunting, but he wasted little time on the revelation. The fact remained, he would be forced to travel the distance on foot. So he took off at a run again, cursing the creature who had sent him on this chase.

---

Sand.

To his relief, there was no shortage of it in the Dragon's Throat, true to the feline's words. It was a desolate image, not entirely unlike the view of the Basin in winter. White drifts of snow as far as the eye could see was not dissimilar to an ocean of orange dunes sweeping up to a pale blue horizon. The sun was warm against his back, and his skin was slick with sweat. It was strange to know his horn did not arch forth from his brow, and in its absence he had been forced to tuck Lena's gift elsewhere. It had joined the glowing charm wound around his tail, and every once in a while he would cast a glance back to reassure himself of its presence.

He paused before the border to the herd lands, looking out across the bleak landscape that was so alien to him. Where was the satisfaction in living in a dead land? What fruits did it bear that enticed so many to make a home within it? The air was dry, his throat was parched, and he was fatigued from a long and sleepless journey. His legs trembled when he stood still, muscles aching persistently. He cast a look down at his feet, at the sand underneath him, around him, everywhere, and looked up expectantly, wondering what the next move would be.

(200th post! Roland is here to collect sand for a quest. He appears as a pure white Pegasus.)