And then suddenly the hostility leaves the air like water in the heat of Tallsun's eternal drought. I find myself surrounded by curious and kind faces, and the accusations turn into a barrage of questions. And yet I do not trust them- past the smiles I sense something far more sinister, something I saw when they first arrived and cannot forget. And of them all I am most fearful of the blood colored stallion with the shards of glass that protrude from his head like daggers. There is a fierce determination about him that I cannot completely place, but even while lacking this specificity, I am certain that he wishes me ill will. Even the unicorn mare seems disingenuous, though perhaps that is merely a part of the programming of my brain, which was so delicately wired by my mother's beatings. I find solace only in the presence of the pegasus mare with the light along her neck; in her wings I see a love of the sky and remember my father. It takes very little to remember him now, for my mind is tender in the wake of his death.

And only now do I begin to wonder how it came about. I somehow feel through my baseline of depression a spike of anger, and the question as to whether or not it was a murder arises. Something inside of me hates whoever caused the death and wants it to feel my pain, and I refuse to believe that there is no one to blame. It is dangerous, this hint of revenge, and it is calmed only by the words of the paint.

She asks me if I am voltaic's daughter, and I wonder what tipped her off. Perhaps the tribal marking and the pattern of my coat; perhaps the eyes, perhaps the wings. I view them all through the flickering flame of my wings, his wings, reluctant to lower them and with them my guard. Their warmth reminds me of a simpler time, structured by my mother's cruelty and interrupted by my father's sparse appearances in my life. I remember when he first gave me his wings on the beach, and my lips part to answer the query.

"Of course- these are his wings," I add in a shaking murmur, feeling the depth of the question hit me like a blow from my mother's horn. I am his daughter in more ways than one- I'd be a fool to not follow his path of loyalty now. "I was born of the temptress Iris; the mare who stole and twisted his heart for her own gains. You knew him?" I question in a clearer voice, changing tones completely from one thought to the next as if forgetting the darker part of my history even as I speak. My yellow eyes focus on the paint now, and my attentions are no longer remotely directed towards the unicorns. What have they to offer me but familiar tricks and beatings, when she stands here with knowledge of my father?