The words of the dark mare held a significant dose of truth. War had always remained to tarnish the sleek, beautiful face of Isilme, whether it be literal bloodshed decimating her valleys and mountain peaks, or analogical carnage threatening to tear asunder the very fibers of delicate peace. Racism had always been so prevalent there, she remembers, recalling the blind hatred for those not blessed with such graces as wings, and horns and vice versa.

Valhalla had never been entirely fond of equines, mostly because the memories of her parents. She had never known who they were, but she knew that neither of them had wielded such lovely appendages as wings or horns. She was a mutation. Had she not been endowed with such 'frivolous' things, her father would not have been obligated to kill the pitiful young Valhalla, and her mother would not have suffered such a fate. Not that she really cared what had become of her maternal caretaker. It was worth it, she thought, to be free from the shackles of the loorien; to be one with the sky, your hooves breaking the clouds as you soared across the heavens. Yes. It certainly is.

She nods in agreement to the mare's words, exhaling softly. Plum eyes met the heavens, watching as baby blue merged into the deep, radiant sapphire of the sea. That was her true home: out there, in the vast, azure sky, sailing and dancing among the clouds - unreachable.

Slender legs pushed against the brine, her dappled form nearing the shore. The dampened grains squelching beneath her weight as she moved just feet to the right from where Azalea stood, shaking her body to rid the rivulets that clung to her coat. "I'm not sure what herds exist here." She said as she outstretched her wings to their full extent, far enough from where the other mare stood as to avoid making contact. Lilac gaze did not meet cerulean pools of Azalea. Instead, they peered downward at the amber sand, ears slightly tilted her direction as the argent damsel then furled her wings atop her back.

With a brief snort, she began to speak. "I have heard of a place called the Windtossed Foothills." With the final, crescendo note she looked toward her. "I hear they accept all species." She had decided to go and visit there, soon.