Surprise softens the feared expression of the maiden as she notes the deer's downtrodden expression, head tilted toward the earth. Still, the wracking of her tiny heart against fragile bones maintains the worry in her face, the horror in the back of her mind. A small pale face much like her own with the hollow, unwavering gaze of the dead flashes briefly from the chasms of her mind, unwanted. A mighty shiver takes hold of her body, lilac eyes going back to look toward the chocolate mare's face, hoping to drive away the nightmare of her past.

Slowly, so slowly, the other unicorn's head twists in a denial, shirking the title of murderer. Were Zyanya a wiser girl, the word of a stranger would not have been enough to satisfy her after running all night from those trying to steal her head from her neck. Zya is not a wise girl.

Even before the exclamation of a no breaks the seal of the warm brown mare's lips, the air around the pallid girl feels lighter. Instantly, the weight on her chest slides, the ghost of her sibling fades from her mind's eye. A tremendous sigh of relief floats from soft, pink lips into the crisp morning air. As she speaks, Zyanya tilts her head toward the loam of the forest. Her mane rushes forward to crowd her face as the delicate flower begins to breathe normally once more, setting the beat in her chest to a much more pleasing tempo.

Who are they?

If only Zyanya knew how to properly answer this question. The only explanation the dainty mare had received before attempting to flee her home in the middle of the night were the hushed tones of her parents, heatedly discussing the revolt of the lower class and what it had cost them. Her own mother unable to mourn the lost of her youngest daughter, forced to put into a motion a plan to escape while Zya walked the old paths of her childhood home in a fog. The idea of her sister as a corpse still hid underneath a mountain of denial, and perhaps her legs had yearned to walk the length of her home in search of that familiar face.

With a quiet tilt of her head, Zyanya looks toward the pale rising of the sun through the branches. Her voice, timid and weak, barely registers over the sound of a whisper. "The lowborn of my nation... they ambushed us as we attempted to flee to the North Haven." Closing pastel colored eyes, the mare looks fragile, tinier than she had been just a moment ago. "They killed my sister, among many others of the high houses." Admitting the death aloud sounded foreign to her own ears, her tongue tasting bitter after the words graced her lips.

Opening her eyes, Zyanya looks back toward the stranger in the forest with her odd companion, proffering a smile that felt more like shedding a tear. Crying upon the first meeting is terrible manners, though, and she simply could not have that.