Zahra, Ilham, and Hanna

It was pride that turned angels into devils

There was a lightness to her stride, a strangely addictive giddiness pulsing through her boiling core that pushed both heart to pound and mind to whirl; the softly frantic flutter of maybe a thousand butterfly wings was alive in her stomach and every taste of the gusting northern wind fed the frothing excitement she could scarcely contain. It was well that Ashamin was her company on this occasion, so too the good-natured brothers who flanked his step, for Zahra’s lips frothed uncontrollably as they went along; oozing needless details and wonderfully inflated stories about the life she, Hanna and Ilham had thus far led in the wilds of Helovia. The queer little travelling party they were, seemed irrelevant in the mind of the creative child - in fact, the longer the time spent with the stallion and the deer-folk companions, the more confident and comfortable she felt about the move into civilisation. If all of his family were so kind-hearted (she had pondered more than once), the little painted girl was certain their future could only be bright. Even the nights they’d rested, her weary body falling hard into the grip of sleep, her visions had seemed quieter and less confronting.

Hanna however (shy like Ilham, and solitary by nature), was considerably put out by the sudden and apparently life-altering arrival of the trio into their mostly quiet, comfortably reclusive existence. She lagged often, hunting more frequently than the opportunity actually arose as a means of distraction rather than fuel; bringing portions of warm and bloody victim to (shamelessly) insult the senses of those hoofed in the group. The golden-bellied yearling however seemed ultimately oblivious (or ignorant) about the fraying joy of her sister - even despite sullen waves of emotion repeatedly delivered, splitting here and there the noisy effervescence in her mind.

The days were all starting to blend together - scattered trees along the way were beginning to feel like endless forests and each expanse of long drying grass seemed as vast as the turning ocean the sisters had seen to the west - when finally, the looming chill in the air became real. Nearly a year had passed already since their last adventure through the snow (all memory still evaded the girl), and at first Zahra could not bring herself to stand upon it. “It’s all wet!” she had announced blatantly as soon as the muddy carpet of melting white was slurping and sucking about her hooves. Though her nose had firstly pinched in distaste, soft smoky-black lips had inevitably peeled back into a wide grin and no further mention  was uttered. Soon enough each swinging leg and the twitching, slender belly above was flecked in putrid slush, but she followed closely Ashamin’s example and hardly seemed bothered. It was a wilderness so very unlike that which she had become fond of - a perspective so very different to her mother’s…

Hanna remembered well the blood shed in this wasteland.

Ashamin led them on and on, and the snow grew ever thicker across the ground. The painted filly found herself searching vainly the surreal landscape for trace the home and family so promised; trees, she was sure, would eventually dim the horizon and within their boughs should glimmer webs like Ilham’s own. The dream seemed never to eventuate however, and instead of a lush, emerald woodland to break up the pasty atmosphere, jagged mountain tops rose to the sky. It was through a pass, narrow and well hidden that they found themselves drawing and the trailing kitsune whined quietly, warily. It was about that time that they took a brief pause and the load of damp, heavy silk was shuffled between the brothers. The yearling girl watched with baited interest before turning her attention to the strange old metal, rusted and ruined - that had once seen her father captured by the herd waiting nearby. She dared not venture too close to the intimidating statues, and pressed a little nearer to her friend.

The stallion turned, smiling, and that coaxed back the cheerful grin into her own pale expression. “Home,” she repeated softly, trying earnestly to find meaning for the word there in the shadow of the mountain. “Thanks Asha…” she hummed, stepping from the side of him she had closed upon (well away from the sentinels), and peering curiously towards movement inside the border. “…This isn’t like our forest at all.” she admitted bravely, drawing a long breath, but accepting all the same the potential he offered. “Where are the spiders?” Still he clung to the notion of weavers just like herself, in the most literal sense and wonderingly she looked back to him.