This home is not as lovely as the previous, but it's a home all the same, she supposes.

Slow cloven hooves trod over growing grass and patches of snow, her sterling body lit up in a cloak of golden dawn. For the longest while (ever since the aftermath of the invasion) she has hidden within herself, hiding from her familiars in childish brooding. Winter was as harsh as summer, but as the snow sloughs away from the land and flowers begin to blossom, the rainchild cannot help but explore this new land and learn every and each of its crevices and virtues. Her mind wanders as her feet, swirling in her skull like the laziest of brooks. They take her to her sire, that pale king drowning in his own sadness. Girlhood memories recall him as a sullen thing, a scarce father. They drift to mother - the roan warrior, the amazon, that fierce woman that gave her life under a thunderstorm and left. A shudder passes through her body, slithering down her spine like electricity. She wonders if they remember her, their ocean child, their summerstorm of a girl. Somewhere deep inside her blue heart, she hopes they have forgotten her; she wishes everyone would forget her. She wants to wash herself from their minds, to erase every trace of her existence as easily as a spring rain. Hooves pause before the lip of a great, still lake, the birthing sun reflected on its glassy surface, fingers of red light swirling like the hands of some affluent god.

Bowing, paying homage to such a beautiful god, a hesitant foot plunges through the lake, sending ripples through the gilded clouds. The water is cold, but not as cold as the depths of her very own heart. I've become as icy as our king, she notes darkly, brushing her lips against the water and letting the frigid liquid slide down her throat in great gulps.

It doesn't rain. It never rains anymore - she has no use for tears, heavenly or otherwise.

Physical thirst sated, the roan turns away from the lake, a sad smile dancing on her lips. Maybe she has underestimated this place and its peace; the only thing she hears is the coo of mourning doves and their ilk and the lazy babble of a distant stream. Huyana wanders for a while longer, until the dark dawning sky lightens a fraction and her muscles become weary. Yet, she urges them to continue, and she pushes herself against the Basin's border, a wicked winter chill sweeping hurriedly through her swarthy mane. Blue eyes search the land quietly, long whiskers quivering as each slow breath is drawn. Here, between winter and spring, it is as silent as death, with only the whispering wind to keep her company. She pauses, forelegs thrust in snow with hindlegs remaining cautiously on grass.

However, unbeknownst to the rainchild, she is not alone.

The shuffle of hooves pass themselves for a gentler sort of wind until they grow louder. Dark ears swivel to the direction of this disturbance, eyes wide with curiosity. It is a mare that approaches, with pretty golden eyes and pale socks that mar the pleasing color of her hide. She tilts her head softly, regarding this stranger mildly - the blue mare seems to be in a daze, mane touseled and unkempt. "Dawn walker," Huyana breathes, more to herself than anything, inclining her head humbly. Her onyx horn catches the rising sun in brilliant golden snakes, ever swirling on the glassy dark surface.

Vaguely, as if an afterthought, she wonders if this mare has looked Death in the eye, has seen the ashy vestiges of a charred soul and felt his icy kiss. Huyana; the name passes through heavy lips, as grim as a requiem.

Huyana, she can hear him in her dreams.

Deimos. I know Death's name.

She wonders if she even cares.