The hollow clicking of hooves striking stone reverberates softly against the cave's arced walls. The Star Breather lifts her pale, tired eyes in response to the sound, turquoise irises glittering faintly in the little light which seeps into the cave's dark crevices. She oscillates her chiseled face to behold a hazy silhouette moving toward her. It floats in from the frosted plane beyond the mouth of her makeshift prison like a wraith, its body swallowed by darkness as it infiltrates the shadows, the only thing visible being the smooth outline of its physique.

The dove tries her best to wipe the tears from her eyes, rubbing her damp face on her knee as the other approaches. She assumes by the delicate deliberation with which the wraith moves that it is a mare who grows near. Its hoof-beats are slow, calm and light, much different than what she assumes the hoof-beats of an aggravated stallion intent on tormenting her would sound like. Perhaps the stranger's scent would give it away as well, if the dame were able to smell. Fluid drips from her nose from the cold, and she wipes that away as well before once again turning her slender face toward the forthcoming mare. The rest of her body remains still. She dares not aggravate her wing. She fears it may be broken beyond repair and even the smallest of movement is painful.

The mare moves ever forward, gazing at the caged mistress silently, peering between the pillars of iron that separate them as if to examine an injured bird. Cassiopeia merely sighs, a plume of steam curling from her lips as she turns away, the remnants of her sorrow streaking down her soft cheeks. She assumes this one is no different from the others. By the horn which twists from her brow she can only speculate that she views Cassiopeia no different than the rest of her brethren: a freak. Steel yourself, my dear, she warns, and the sable matron percolates her slender ears, surprised by the sincerity of her voice. There are creatures far worse than I in this dark place and I would not have them thrive off of your weakness. She gazes at the mare for a moment, wet, disheveled lashes blinking softly over glazed eyes.

"And what would you do to stop them? There is not much else they can do to me," she avers, her voice like a breath of wind, matching Chernobyl's in pitch. They have taken her from her one asylum, the one place she truly belongs... the last place she can still feel his presence. She has not seen her daughters in weeks, and longing weighs heavy on her heart. She is forced to watch herself wither away, barred from the majesties of flight, a torturous thing for a child of the sky. They have taken her amulet, something that, in a way, represents her love for Azzuen. Her wing has been broken, and perhaps she will never again soar through the heavens. Her magic is the only thing that remains to comfort her, but even that is more frail than usual. The stardust which coats her mane and tail tuft glitters faintly, the magic weakened by her condition.

The Star Breather turns to face the mare once again, curious as to what has caused her silence, only to find she is gone. Cassiopeia does not anticipate her return, resigning herself once again to her solitude with little objection. Silence encroaches upon the shadowy domain, but it does not last for quite as long as expected. The mare returns, this time with a gift between her teeth. It has been quite a while since Cassiopeia has last tasted the tangy sweetness of fresh, dew-laden grass and although the yellowed tendrils placed at her hooves is hardly a parallel, her hunger is great. She lips the dried stalks generously, outstretching her thin neck to reach for the modest pile. It is hardly enough to nourish her body, and although not particularly palatable, she does not argue. It is a kind gesture.

She works the victuals between her teeth. The taste, although bland, causes a sharp pain in the back of her mouth as saliva seeks to moisten her tongue and throat. She swallows, finding herself greedy for more, hunger still raking at the pit of her stomach.

The dove watches the dark maiden inquisitively, vague wonderment aglitter in her eyes. She is not particularly beautiful, but there is a certain windswept-ness about her that is easy to admire. The rich sable of her coat combined with the darkness makes it difficult for the Night Dweller to fully observe her, but from what she has seen thus far, not limited to simply appearance, it is clear that she is different. "You are unlike the others," she muses as Chernobyl admires the vivid display of color emblazoned in the clouds by the setting sun.

Cassiopeia can only see a small parcel of the sky from her position. The rest is obscured by the beginning of the cave ceiling and the peaks of snow-crested cliffs in the distance. In the mornings, she can sometimes catch small glimpses of sunlight. In the waxing hours of dawn, slender fingers of its rich illumination reach out to caress her with their warm, soothing touch, weaving between the iron bars which hinder her from the outside world like sleek ribbons. It is refreshing, no matter how finite the experience may be, to feel the sun while tucked away in darkness. She misses the sky, the clouds, the comradery of the air during flight as it gently preens the feathers; but most of all, she misses the comforting warmth of the sun.

As she peers out at her small window to the sky, another finds its way into the cave. She makes her way steadily closer, coming up to stand at the side of the first mare. The scar will heal in time, my dear, but will never disappear. Her words betray the strange expression plastered upon her features; a smile, but it seems oddly hostile. This one is stained a rich shade of mahogany with flecks of crimson coating her features. She is tall – Cassiopeia assumes she is much taller than herself – though appears to be about the same size as the first mare.

She gazes up at the newcomer with an inscrutable expression. "I have suffered many scars..." Her words are like poetry, lilting cryptically from sooty lips. She speaks with a quiet resiliency. Indeed the astral dame has acquired many wounds throughout the years - some physical, and others internal like dark stains on the seraph's unspoilable heart - and this one will simply be another added to her trove. She sighs, a thin, livid plume of smoke whirring gently from her nostrils and mouth.

One scar remains to be sewn, one which stubbornly rents itself open time and time again, peeling off the scab just before it starts to heal. She doubts it will ever cease the cycle, for the gash is deep and oh, how it bleeds. Each time she thinks of this hole in her heart it grows just a little bit wider and she doubts that she will ever love again. The one to once occupy the gap has left, departed from this world. She swears she can hear his voice, echoing hauntingly within her head.

You are my other half, he says. I am incomplete without you.

She feels the prick of tears swell behind her eyes, but she squeezes them tightly, struggling to encumber the sheer intensity of the emotion. 'Azzuen,' she thinks. 'You are the half that makes me whole.' She yearns to hear his answer, though she knows fully well that it will never come.

[ ooc ; Long, rambly post. :P ]