For a moment, there is only a mere spark, carried by a gentle southron wind, but in less than a heartbeat, it grows, consuming the surrounding atmosphere until there is nothing more than fire. It grows, this uncanny fire, spiraling to monstrous proportions, seemingly consuming the sky in its sweltering body, its thunderous noise and tremendous heat seeping into the area surrounding it like some virulent thing. After a few moments of glory, however, they begin to wane, shrinking back to reveal a lithe figure, clad in pallor, reveling in these blazing arms as a child would in a father's embrace.

But the only father she's ever known wore a cloak of flames, and the only embrace she knew was an burning one.

When the fire dissipates completely, the girl seems almost lost, naked, as if some vital part of her had just disappeared. She lets her eyes harrow through this new environment, absorbing the clear day and the lush spring grass. Her appearance had been met with a sort of stunned silence - the birds had stopped singing, the insects stopped chirping, escaping the wrath of this impulsive fire. They reluctantly resume their merry chorus, regarding the sudden appearance of the alabaster filly with nothing more than fleeting glance. With the impartial flick of a gold-tipped tail, the demigoddess begins her jaunt across this blessed land, feeling particularly divine today. To those first observing the daughter of fire, she may seem overwhelming; she is as pale as the first light of dawn, with vermilion eyes that seem to shimmer and shine, as if dusted with gold. Every angle, every inch of her seems to radiate all the affluence and ascendancy of the sun itself.

Today, the sun shines brightly, sending fingers of fire through the intricate markings scrawled on her back and wings and fueling her veins with joy. Cloven hooves advance through the moist ground - she extends the already great breadth of her wings to their full span, letting a balmy zephyr pass beneath them. Pale feathers flutter, dancing over the breeze like the most veteran of fliers. She continues through the prairie for a time, hip-height tendrils of grass tickling the bottom of her belly as she passes. It is not long until she hears the familiar babble of voices, but the smell is cool and foreign - like snow and ice and other unfortunate things. They are both black, with horns, and one bears the promise of wings. Her heart quickens pathetically - she only knows people with wings or a horn or nothing at all, excluding her father, and meeting another with both would be exciting indeed!

So, Israfel picks her way toward them easily, pale ears forward and attentive. "Hey!" she calls, vermilion eyes wavering between the wingless filly and the winged colt. The girl has blue eyes, as she seems older than the boy - who cannot be younger than herself. When she notices his eyes, she feels the cold fingers of fright crawl up her throat. Is he dead? Her movements hesitate; she watches him with a mixture of horror and curiosity. His eyes are pupiless and pale, although they seem to function as all eyes should; she discounts it for a meaningless abnormality, although cannot shake off the vague revulsion. Hooves seize to a halt before them, pink lips skimming back to a smile.