Life had never seemed so splendid to the slip of a girl.

Sunlight shone down upon her dark, soft baby-fleece coat, warming it like mother's love, and the lush tundra grasses were forgiving under her minute hooves as she romped and played with butterflies, their wings as paper-thin and fragile and vibrant as the petals of the flowers that followed her. Mama had warned the child not to stray too far from the protection of her presence (Huyana worried about the babe, already too rambunctious and wild for her own good), but as soon as the scholar had felt the noon sun upon her back, her eyelids grew heavier and heavier until they shut all together—and that was the girl's chance; her first taste of freedom, of adventure, and she would satisfy her thirst for discovery as well as she could, she would quench it thoroughly. There was only one problem: what, exactly, would she do to quell this craving? It was this question which made the babe hesitate, slowing her aimless feet and temporarily staving off the rampaging hunger for enterprise and put her ambitious undertaking to a temporary halt while she pondered this, but she did not have very long: Mama was still within sight. Deep in thought, she eyed the familiar sterling form, traced and re-traced the curves of her figures which she had committed to memory so long ago.

An epiphany.
A splendid idea.

She would go visit Papa.

Mama had warned the fledgling long ago (it had only been several days ago, but it was like an eternity to the week-old filly) not to bother her father, for he was an exceedingly important man with many other duties and cares than a rambunctious baby, but ever defiant and true to her great and fabled blood, Lothíriel was to commit her first act of rebellion. She would visit Papa, whether Mama liked it or not. Anyway, the scholar never dealt out harsh punishments, only a stern glance and a lecture; although only a babe, Lothíriel knew she was her mother's weakness and exploited that fact whenever she possibly could.

So—the suckling tore off at a gallop, a bright trail of little blooms sprouting in her wake (this would work to her disadvantage, but she hadn't realized that yet). Tiny cloven hooves took her far beyond the sight of the inert form of her dam; but those long, spindly legs could only take her so far before they trembled with fatigue. She paused, tossing an uncertain look backwards: this was the furthest she had ever ventured from the comfort of Mama's side, and the sheer thought of becoming lost made her belly roil with unease.
No, she was Lothíriel the Brave, the Bold, the Mighty, many-times descendant from Cinnoru the Cunning, cousin to the demigod Imiq the Serpent: she was not feeble-hearted like common people were; she was impetuous, audacious—the bravest of the brave, the astutest of the astute, the greatest of her generation, and not only was she able of mind and body, she was also beautiful—Mama said so!

With renewed confidence, the tiny figure, terribly aching but fearless, dashed across the hills and gulleys of the green valley, clearly embarking on the greatest quest ever dealt. With a gallant sneer upon her lips, she dared dragons and giants to come her way; she called upon harpies and wyverns and challenged the phantoms of long-dead warlords to approach her; they would all bow before the silver-crested child, she was sure of it! Let her be the queen of all that was dark and abhorrent, the sole beacon of light in this frightening world! She leaped and bucked and whinnied with commotion, sending bits of petal and stems and grass whirling in the aftermath of her splendor. Papa will be so proud of his lavender-eyed daughter after he learned of her crusade, of all the monsters she vanquished for him and Mama—he would name her champion of the valley, protectress of the Basin, and she would be as great and renown as her predecessors!

In all her ruckus and tumult, the little roan had failed to notice how far she had scampered from the watchful eye of her dam. Strange voices and odd, foreign smells interrupted the baby from her reverie of greatness, and her absconding gait broke into a halting, clumsy jog, her distraction causing the hopelessly long limbs to tangle and trip over one another. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to stray so far from Mama, she thought, comically large ears tilting backwards with doubt. "Mama," whispered the girl in that shrill, unsure voice of her's, tongue tripping over the simple syllables, as if the sole saying of her mother's voice would bring her to safety. Dark legs stumbled to a wary walk, careful not to make a sound in the grass but doing so anyway.
Were these brigands, thieves set out to capture wandering little girls? Though she panicked at the thought, she would not permit herself to run; she would be brave for Mama and Papa—she would protect them with all the power vested in that tiny, new body! Bearing the laughable bump of her horn at the voices, the babe bravely crested the hill which hid their faces. She steeled herself for the inevitable attack.

Children have such baffling fortunes.

"Papa!" she cried with relief, as his tall, stoic and gratifyingly recognizable form came into sight. The lamb rushed to his side, flowers scattering recklessly at her feet, momentarily forgetting about her quest and the brigands until her minute form was eclipsed by his own. When the slight form was adequately close to her father's towering shadow, she let lilac eyes pass over the strangers before her. They were all unfamiliar—she had not met anyone other than Papa and Mama in her eminently short lifespan, and the rest of the names she only knew through the lore of her dam.

There was a red bay stallion with two glass horns rising magnificently from his head (one broken, she noted), and it was him all the others addressed. By his side was a strange creature, as tall as she and lithe and dangerous; she cowered further into her father's shadow, feeling her heart rise into her throat with fear (Papa would protect her, so she must not run). There were two others: an exceedingly lofty male (taller than Papa!) with bronze markings which glittered on his shoulder (he had two horns as well; how strange, Lothíriel thought) and a swarthy-pelted girl with a broad white blaze and blue eyes that recalled mother's color, though they were too pale and peculiar to bring any comfort to the filly. She had the same bizarre translucent horn as the bay, but it was shortened considerably, the jagged edges scintillating in the sunlight.

Without shame, the girl stared at them with a mixture of wonder and wariness. Who were they? And what did Papa have to do with them?