Nightmares edge the dreams of honor, of glory and beauty; the many things that appeal to the mortals.

She does not know how to feel.

Her heart should’ve been made of iron, despite being locked into a different body, even without the power to sing her storms and whisper to the lightning, feel the wind stir her mane and play jovially at her electric body. Hespera was a strong mare, even with the youth written on her face. It showed through her strong shoulders and deep chest; but mostly, one could see it in the sharp line of her jaw and the stone eyes in her sculpted face of obsidian and ebony, in the sleek curve of her muscle-clad neck.

Yet for all the strength in her stout, nimble build, all the heroism she kept bound within her, how she was good and heroic by mortal definitions, her empty heart was burned by the lack of her.

The stormchild would not cry; not today, not tomorrow, nor the day after. She was the shieldmaiden, the bold wielder of the war axe forged by mountain lords, the leader of armies, and she was destined for something greater than tears falling down her face- no, lords, she would not be the next weeping mare of the melancholy mountains, the glistening diamonds falling from her electric eyes forging rivers carving down the rock.

Hespera had followed the purple taffy mare with the rude cub of a tiger, but soon she drifted from the lavender’s flank; for she was not a child anymore, and she may as well try herself, learn her limits and begin the exploration of mortal curiosities she was unaccustomed with. Foremost to her wandering mind was the idea of worship and religion, of prayers spoken in the candlelight and whispers of hope and promise. As she moved across the land, a shining dark ghost in the ghastly moonlight, she brooded over the complexities that she had never had to deal with before.

Indeed, was it the gods of this land who had stolen her unearthly form?

Could she have it back? If she were to flee the land of unheavenly and blasphemous shadow, would the goddess of lightning be restored to former glory, winning back her powers? Had it been Tarleton, the old bastard, who had done this to her as a vicious test to win her way to Wenopa, realm of the divine gods? A way to scrutinize her worth in the world of the damned?

Perhaps it was only inevitable that the sky-daughter would be drawn to one of the greatest sources of power in the realm of illieds, the veins of the gods.

Above her Otienu glided restfully, at ease with this world painted in hues of blue and silver and black; he was the silver griffon, of a gray-scale balance, so it wasn’t as surprising as one might think. With each beat of his quiet wings, the bonded pair moved further towards the gods’ traditional church, decrepit as it may have become, no longer protected by the gods. Why did they leave, the mighty gods? In Strumbur, it would be something horrendous; abandoning the mortals, leaving them to simple life, was not only primitive and crude, but upset the very balance of life itself.

Gods were unpredictable entities, and Hespera would know that, having been one herself.

The rock, rough and worn beneath her cloven hooves, massaged her feet as she moved gracefully across the bridge of stone. It was a difficult exertion, hard on her lungs, one that had Otienu watching with concern. Winter was no easy time to be tackling volcanic mountains; especially a winter as awful as this, filled with madness and confusion, like the bear stung repeatedly by golden and ebony wasps in the face.

A hollowed-out statue, near-devoid of anything but the most basic of emotion, unknowing in how to handle herself; this was the stormchild.

Truth be known, the royal griffon knew more of life and how to life than she did, even if he was hardly older than the time it took for an autumn leaf to tumble to the forest floor.

Hespera could ignite a presence within her, much the way movie stars’ might, or the way a seductive mare swings her hips and curves her neck to draw the attention of a man to her. Not today, however; not in this gray world. Quieter than a breath of wind, she swept across the stone oaths, moving with a liquid grace not unlike the way a river flowed down its bed, or the leopard slithered down a tree onto the prairies. Resting on her shoulders lay the hybrid of tiger and eagle, perched delicately, avoiding opening the scarring tissues from the numerous times he had accidently opened up her obsidian skin, letting forth crimson blood.

Even as she leapt across the treacherous creeks of ancient, molten blue lava crawling down the volcanic stone, her hooves made hardly more than a quiet clatter. On occasion, with a rustle of deep iron wings, the griffon would leap from her sooty bodice and sweep into flight, admiring the glint of moonlight on the ocean and keeping an eagle-eye out for what may bring harm to his companion weakened by winter’s frigid love.

It was only when her breath came ragged and hoarse, rattling about in her chest that the unicorn lady slowed to a halt within the shadows deep, eyes settling upon the bruised shrines.

How Hespera wished she could see the gods; question them and query them, pepper them with insults and growls and grumbles. Would they stare at her, toy with her, wonder why another god was in their land? Would they laugh at her, whisper in her ears, play cruel games like some of the gods did? Did they sire bastard children in this land? If so, which were the ones blessed with the strength of the gods and bound with mortal problems, to be hated and shunned for their life as much as they were admired?

For a moment, however brief, she forgot of her loss of power, and summoned Damaë; but the copper armour did not materialize upon her raven bodice. It was this magic gone from her that stung her the most.

A thousand curses upon their divine heads.

What had Zikr once said? Otienu prodded her memory curiously with sharp little mental talons, hooking out the old images worn and ravaged by time. The great white stag’s philosophies, for most part, had gone over her head. But one lay prominent, even in the past; how the gods would be gods, the mortals would be mortals, and when the two crossed paths the stars collided.

When the stars fell, only great events came of it, sometimes good, sometimes horrific.

Resting a hind hoof, breathing gently into the winter air, she let flow the many memories. No use in holding it bottled up in the presence- or non-presence- of gods. Here, she was a guest, and it was more polite to think freely than shield them as Daermaethor had taught her.

How much time passed in this languid way was uncertain; eventually, Otienu gave a quiet chirp of warning, soaring down, back-beating furiously with his sails to land ungracefully upon her withers. Her lips curled disdainfully as his claws cut her dark shoulders, beads of blood gathering at the surface of her dark skin.

Quickly the thoughts of pain were shaken from her at the sound of a slightly obnoxious voice.

Crude words, and poor vocabulary, if not an interesting one; another voice joining, surprisingly placid despite the mare’s swears; for the rough voice was undoubtedly a mare’s. Hespera was neither introvert nor extrovert. She was her, a goddess, even torn from her regular form and bound into skin and flesh, bone and muscle.

That is to say she was difficult to describe.

“The gods are unknowable in their ways,” the stormchild murmured, stepping from the shadows and shedding the darkness like a snake its old skin. “They abandoned Helovians. The gods of my homeland would be shamed to do so; it is ridiculous for them to have left Helovians so.” It was clear the unicorn did not believe herself part of the land, even if the land of the sun was notorious for welcoming vagabonds and outcasts, wanderers and lonely beings.

“We are all damned, the gods most of all. Nothing good will come of meddling with heavenly beings, nor them with us. Divine interference will ruin this world more than anything else- and it seems that the gods have been interfered with, even if the lady of the moon has returned.”

“Hope is only the grasping of straws.”