Fire.

It consumes her, stroking her lanky pale frame greedily in spiralling tongues of feral plumes; she pretends her father is there with her, in that pyre, watching her from between wild fronds. It billows savagely in the reflection of her red-gold eyes, framed by long, delicate eyelashes. She loves the feeling of fire crawling through her veins, embracing her bones with light and consuming her completely; it steals her away to secret places, or at least, she wishes so, and judging by the emptiness of this forest, the flames have not failed her yet.

The fire recedes from her body, sloughing off in great waves of heat and light. They leave only silence, and she misses their hiss and crackle, the warmth of their kiss. Ears flick back and forth uncertainly, although she chastises herself for this, for no daughter of the sun should be unsure! She snorts softly, white whiskers quivering comically.

After a brief moment of complete calm, she catches the gentle lull of faint voices, and daintily, the filly picks her way towards them, careful of the terrible wet snow that wants to cling to her spindly legs. She much prefers heat, for her coat is thin and delicate, and she likes the feeling of being embraced by warmth - maybe it is her father pressing into her skin, telling her that he's here, and everything will be okay. Israfel has never met her father, the fabled sun god, but she knows he's there, somewhere, looking over his sole progeny with pride. He lives in her mind as the stories she's heard of him. Bad things have been said about him; that he's rash, destructive, but she chooses to overlook those blemishes in favor for the knight in her dreams, golden and brave and just. Once, when she had been wandering around her new home (the World's Edge, ghastly dark place) she had stumbled across an ugly black scar in the forest, charred and burnt, but regrowing. Had he done that?

The voices grow louder and louder until their bodies are revealed; a star-spangled pegasus and a purple-accented unicorn. Her ears perk forward smartly. "Hello!" she calls brightly, plunging forward in their direction, forgetting about the sticky snow which now clings to her legs. This is the Threshold, the daughter of fire thinks, judging by the tall trees and the strangers that smell of exotic places. Her mother had told her of this place; it was once a place of sanctum for those of the WildRose's land, where the living where chased away by the dead. Ghastly place, the pale girl had said, glad she her sister and mother had made it out of that place.

"I'm Israfel," she chirps, halting before the duo. "You're in Helovia, do you need a home?" Maybe they would want to live in the Edge. Maybe it would make her sire proud enough for a visit.