Tinek spotted the grey figure below with hawkish, crimson eyes, circling overhead like a vulture. The prey beneath was plenty alive, ebony pinions churning the snow with a practiced ease, and the silver beast with toothy, ivory maw dove, already pushing these images into his bond-mate's bind, ignoring her slight protest as the dragon's warning. He longed to be able to communicate with her more deeply, but alas, his mind was unable to form the words of her own language. Silly, deer-like creature needed to learn dragon, but her ears were ignorant to the guttural slurs and cries from his own throat.
Ophelia narrowed her gaze in minor irritation as he landed on her withers roughly, his claws digging into her hide without breaking skin. She snorted a puff of white frost and continued on her forward path; why Tinek did not like this grey and black male was beyond her comprehension, and she was under the impression that any Thresholder would not risk jeopardizing their future by attacking her. One day, she would be horribly, violently wrong.
Strong, white light illuminated her right side, casting a dancing glow upon her pristine coat and dark, bloody light upon her crimson eye. The bitter chill brought curling steam wafting from her slender figure, and trapped by the light, it danced. A long, deep shadow followed her every movement as her cloven hooves carried her closer to this stranger. Ophelia paused, her pale figure almost perfectly blended with winter's blanket if not for her shadow and the blood on the fibers of her mane and tail. She watched the stallion curiously, turning her head to the side; an innocent and odd gesture. Heterochromatic eyes observed the strength in his gait as he assaulted the snow brutally with his hooves.
Did he look joyful? She thought he might. Unable to contain her curiosity, she trotted gracefully toward him, her cloven hooves carrying her easily over the snow. Unlike his own proud, purposeful gait, her own was subtle and elegant, an elongated stride that barely shifted the muscles beneath her hide. Upon closer inspection, the horn on his brow was almost transparent and not made of strengthened bone like her own pearly spear. The stallion was a curious being, and more than anything, she wanted to know his stories. Now that she had laid eyes on him, she would never forget, but something extra to go along with the picture always sated her need for knowledge... for awhile at least.
"Greetings," she called, her chime-like voice echoing through the otherwise quite forest. The young mare tossed her forelock to the side, revealing the oddity of her gaze. "I am Ophelia," she introduced as an afterthought. "From where do you arrive?" she asked, wondering if he was one of the mysterious Woodlanders from Isilme. Her mind would never let her birthplace die; all of their faces, voices, and the land would never be silent in her mind. Even now, she could hear the cry of the gulls overhead and smell the salt of the Tides.
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