Though she is loathe to admit it, the angel is confused, at a loss to determine the reasoning behind the butterfly's actions, her mind and her thoughts. She wants to believe that the girl has seen in Zuriel what the Seraph has always known to be there, that the darling little butterfly has been drawn to the light that seems to radiate from the crystal-crowned queen. The darkling follows her like a moth drawn to flame, asking no questions and telling no lies, her uncloven hooves cutting neat little semicircles in the crisp autumn grass, her eyes blissfully empty and simple and adoring. The angel strides ahead, her head held high, confidence in the smooth sway of her hips; she hums to herself to hide her frustration; and her blue eyes glow dark as she considers the next path.

She wants to think that the girl is drawn to her, but our angel's too wily to take it on faith. What sort of individual throws themselves at a stranger's feet, casts herself solely to the mercy of a mare who offers her no kindness, no affection or trust? How ironic, that this drab little thing ties herself to a mare who hates her, simply by virtue of her lacking a horn? The angel wonders as they rise to the sky, a detour on the path to the ice kingdom which her brother calls home, the frozen palisade she will likely never love. In truth, she reasons, she has no idea what the girl wants; the butterfly has not spoken yet, not a whisper or a word, another lack of actions which leave Zuriel disconcerted, but oddly impressed. The strange little girl is growing on our Seraph. But she has to be certain, has to understand.

On the roof of the world she stops at a stream, and lowers her delicate crown to drink. From the corner of her eye she watches the girl; she suspects she will wait, will not touch the water without consent, even permission - though she hopes that the creature will at least ask. She must be thirsty; the trip was not brief, and the trek arduous. Shadows stretch long behind the pair, a promise of sunset soon to descend, and in the fading light the angel drinks deep, lingering, sighing her pleasure, until at last... the arise.

And now she turns to the butterfly, caught, and a delicate smile teases her lips. She is the picture of perfection, our actress in white; the slight tilt of her head, a crease in her brows, but still in command, ever in control. For a long, lingering moment, she looks at the mare. She notices now the mix-and-match eyes, the band on her leg and the brand on her flank. She's nothing remarkable, the girl in grey; short, chunky, buckskin, head cloaked in a cowl. Zuriel eyes her critically, and finally explodes into bright, silver bells. "Well then, little butterfly... won't you tell me your name?" It's a test, an exploration: does the thing even have an identity, a name to convey? If it does, will it keep it, or take on the title that the Seraph has bestowed? Butterfly, butterfly, such a net you find yourself in.

[ sorry for the wait <3 @[Kaiylia] ]