Clouds choke the sky today, the threat of rain casting an ominous shadow over the thistle-dotted meadow, quiescent and verdant. It has rained recently, for Lothíriel's legs and belly are dark with droplets which had been lingering on grass. Absently, she lips the slender wet blades, more out of habit than real hunger, dew rolling off her whiskers. What is she waiting for? Even the roan girl herself is unsure; she has spent all morning in stasis, letting the cold spring sun soak her bones before the clouds rolled in. Now that they've arrived, she stands in their shadow, the brisk air chilling her summer skin. Thingol circles above, his pale feathers drawing lazy shapes; he'd almost be invisible with that overcast backdrop if it wasn't for the ruby points of his eyes. The queen of flowers watches him for a few moments, transfixed by the steadiness of his flight. Wind rustles his feathers and disturbs her flower-studded mane—it ushers the coming of rain.

Someone calls her.

Lothíriel turns towards the brusque voice, ears flicking backwards in dismay. Although the voice itself is unfamiliar, she can hazily recognize its timbres from a distant childhood memory. She laughs unexpectedly, both amused and apprehensive by the animosity in his tone. Not long ago the phantom had made an attempt on a feather of his—a beautiful feather, so unfitting for such a cumbersome beast. It would look so much nicer on me, the girl thinks dismayedly as she turns in the direction of the dying echoes of his call. It has obviously angered him, a notion which thrills the young mare; she likes the idea of flirting with danger—it dissolves the monotony of her newfound routine. Cleft hooves make little sound through the high grass as she approaches him from behind, careful to stay behind the tree he stands before. For a moment, she pauses beside the tree on the side directly opposite to the dark stallion, giving herself time to study the situation and its various details. He (she cannot recall his name—did she ever know it?) is a bona fide behemoth, tall and black and roiling with anger. Two dragonesses, one pale and small, and one immense and gold, perch on a branch above him. Assuming they belong to him, Lothíriel's eyes narrow—only those with equine blood can bond to dragons, so he is impure, an abomination. What a shame, for he is a fine specimen, broad and muscled, endowed with two twisting horns. 

She decides to make herself known; the nymph snakes around the tree's trunk and into his view, a spuriously demure smile pressed on velvet lips. Waiting until he notices her, the girl pauses a short distance away from the brute, swaying lightly on her cloven feet. Lilac eyes regard the sister dragons with the smallest flash of unease before settling on him, brilliant and critical. "You called?", she says, mockingly coy, the tip of her tail twitching with impudence.