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I like to be moving. For one thing, walking around does not strengthen my wings as flying does, even when the day is sweet and the thermals are warm. For another, on the ground when is susceptible to all kinds of danger, whereas up here the only danger I need to fear is weather. But only a very young or very pitiful pegasus would not know of weather patterns, which I probably know better than myself. Rain, torquing winds, wind repeats, downwards winds, thermals, rains, wrinkles and bobbies, too-loo-toos and heh-la-doos. I angle my wings, miniscule muscles delicately repositioning each feather to create the perfect slope as I head towards the ocean in a downwards spiral. I'm already below most downdrafts, so I needn't fear being sucked towards the earth in a heart-breakingly quick descent.
Black eyes glimpse as the long strip of beach suddenly becomes red-stained, corpse-strewn, a terrifying but familiar sight to me, who, despite my young age, is very much a war veteran. Wings flare back, primaries adjust, my body strains to pull against the force of gravity. My hooves sink into red sand. I can almost hear the crows' call, the gore-crows feeding on the dead warriors. The land's disgusting, and I pick my way around each dead animal carefully, although I'm fairly certain this is an illusion. I've never encountered an illusionist- they've always been held with some suspicion in my eyes. How can one cast magic? How would they know if they were in an illusion?
Whoever this is, is good enough, although the blood-salt smell is soon replaced with wet-salt stench. I rustle black wings, somewhat annoyed, wanting to find out the soldier who plays with illusions. I do not approve of this kind of magic. To find the fear inside one's head, spin and twist it and create it, is not fair battle. It's unhonorable, although I suppose it does have its uses. Nevertheless, I distrust it. I search, quickly plucking out two living forms in this battle-field illusion. One's a big boy, maybe two hands taller than me, closer than one. White unicorn, painted with sweet baby blues. The other is a mare, lustrous shining silver, violet mane and tail. I rustle my wings, eyes narrowing. Both of them don't look... No split judgements. Go, say hello, then leave if you want.
"You know, illusionist, you can practice on me." I had intended to greet, but instead I offered my mind. What the fuck?
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