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BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY
Through perhaps some kind of sixth sense she thought that maybe she had heard laughing in the far, far distance. Something was moving with such electric energy that it was only obvious that she would pick up on it. Perhaps through the way the charged air roused and stirred the cold air around her, right at this moment, too; even when she could not see, hear, or smell it.
Her delicate feathers that lay on the wind, resting in the attachment to her crown, only bristled slightly in the coming breeze; mocking the intention or the possibility of an unreal force created; the wasted likelihood of an atomic boom.
A flare of curiosity from the bond with her companion told her two things, one: Mr. Teatime had been residing somewhere hidden in the snow close by (she knew it!), two: Mr. Teatime had sensed the same as her; the cold, dreary steppe had not only them wandering around on it any longer. She saw him before she truly heard or smelled him, vivid black against the white of the canvas — Or perhaps she had , through the echoes of snow and icy winds. However, she was not arrogant enough to support that as the truth. (Beside her cheeks the wings on her head shuffled its feathers smooth once more). There had been little to form a contrast with the pale environment, but the stallion that came halo-ing at her was dark, his black coat only forming a reflective surface for the light-colored atmosphere to shimmer on. Between his eyes erupted a horn that she assumed could easily be used for some wood carving in the unicorns’ free-time, without needing to worry if it got blunt. The mare’s ears lay flopped forward since he had entered into her formerly static view. The tiger mare watched him thump through the snow from her place with interest. With him, he had a many-tailed fox tailing him, she noticed. This sight put something in motion in her companion's brain. Behind Maren, the orange blob jumped out of the snow, emphasizing his youthfulness; eyes sharply determined as he bunny-jumped past his mother-companion, continuing to throw forward his feline-body towards the kitsune, for the sake of (attempting to) sniff-snuff-ing the butthole (did he have as many as he had tails?) of the curious beast-companion.
Maren herself had not quite moved since, her naturally cold, golden eyes leaning on the recollection of a quiet, deserted steppe. In her mouth still lingered the roughed feeling of the helms that had rubbed her gums without leaving a taste. With her thought half with her gums and half with the approaching stallion, she watched his smile as he drew closer. It was a handsome smile. She threw up the corners of her lips in return to meet his politeness. “Goodday,” she said rather late in her outlandish tune, one that was trailed by a certain nonchalant confidence and particularized with a fine thread of femininity. Her glance found his eyes, strangely deep as they were; like looking up into the dark blue night when there were no lights polluting the sky and all the shining stars from the milky-way had smudged, brewed into the taint of darkness, to create the shade she was finding herself falling in now; flickering and... enchanting. With his tail being the exception, she had found he had a lot of hair; a lot of hair on his chin, to be quite more exact. Like a goat, she assumed quickly, after having thrown away the suspicion of maybe whiskers-gone-wrong. She could not admit otherwise than that it actually looked rather manly amidst his other (mysterious) features, like his perhaps slightly feminine elegance. This, of all things, made her realize that he, like her, probably didn’t come here often, for he seemed like one with a too sensitive palate to chew the sturdy grass helms daily.
Do you have sensitive gums, too?
And so Maren, having the strangest tendency to forget to introduce herself first, before jumping into the middle of a conversation that did not even exist yet, asked the only reasonable question she found worthy of asking at this specific moment in time. She raised her eyebrows in (questionable) concern:
“Are you... lost?”
Because she sure as hell was.
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