A basket of flowers is woven tightly beneath her deep cinnamon muzzle, a construction that had taken hours upon hours of tedious work. It had taken forever, it seemed, to weave such a device. Her blossoms were too weak to be of use, but with a little effort she'd manage to produce flowers of the wall-climbing variety, helping tie together the massive ferns and sturdy plants she'd tediously collected. After so long fighting and trying as hard as she could to obtain it, she'd been blessed. Now she was given a pearl of an orb, shining soft in the fading sunlight, encased by the basket hung round her delicate shoulders. She was a slight girl, barely anything to her, and this was only emphasized by the plethora of colors that swarmed behind her like awed fans parading upon a royal carpet. Their subtle perfumes refreshed all around her, moments after she passed, but she was so used to them being all around her that she had nearly forgotten they exuded such lovely smells. It was hard to notice when they were always in the back of her mind, and especially difficult when her focus was always upon the egg she held precious and close to her chest. Nayati feared sleep, now, not only because of her fear of the darkness that shrouded her every night, but because she was afraid someone would try to harm or steal the egg away from her.
Already the light is fading and she's growing a little nervous, but her resolve has hardened after all the seasons of betrayal and abandonment. She has governed herself from babehood, and most of her life was spent in solitude and isolation unfitting someone her age. More like a mare than a filly any longer, she'd had loved ones come into her life time after time, only for them to disappear in much the same fashion. Nayati had long ago given up on such matters, and though she was not even a full year of age when she'd left the Foothills, clueless over how to protect and care for herself, she'd never regretted doing so. Placeless and homeless she may be, that was true, but nothing would ever convince her that it was a bad lifestyle. She belonged to the trees and the lush grasses, the dappled light between branches, the sweet breeze of the changing seasons. Her mark was made with the passing of flowers, the musical tinkling of glass and wood objects twined lovingly in her mane and tail, the glow of life and color she left in her wake. Nayati needed no home. The world was her home, her cavern, her sanctuary. Every step revealed a new universe, and it welcomed her with open arms simply because she asked of it only one thing- to be as true to itself as it could. Herd life was not something she missed, since she had been shunned and ignored most of the time she'd been within the borders of one. Solitude was not something she craved, but it was not something she despised either. Looking down at the beautiful crafts in her locks, the glow of the egg in her basket...could she have asked for anything more?
Fear is unwarranted now that the egg is in her care. The dusk can no longer strike her with as much fear as she used to allow, because she cannot afford to let her fears harm the innocent life in her trust. As much as she'd love to dread it, she has to get over this massive phobia, and she will do so if it kills her. The grass is cool and the air is soothing, though she knows with Frostfall comes the return of pain. Pain is nothing new to her, as sorrowful as the thought makes her, and the lengthy scar upon her side a tribute to how much she had suffered already. Regardless, she doesn't eagerly await the return of bloodied lips and seizing lungs, body tremors and sleepless nights of aching. She will cherish this pleasantly brisk autumn eve while she still can.
Hunger does not gnaw at her as it does many. Nayati had been raised with so little, her tolerance was much higher. It led to her petite frame becoming slight and weightless, like a ballerina, a graceful swan of restraint and reminder of poverty. Endless locks moved about her, carrying more weight and presence, making her seem larger than she truly was. At least it prevented worried tuts and sad glances, as if her stature made her seem her age. Had they looked into the crevices of her mind, they would have realized she was older than the galaxies in thought and reasoning. Maturity suited her well, had seemed to rob her of the most basic, primal emotions; the ones that stirred wars and birthed undesired offspring- created more lost souls like her.
The night offers peace, but tonight she is not alone in her quiet traversing of the meadows. Like a pale ghost she glows in the fading light, steps silent and slow, purposeful. By the end of her life, there will be little she regrets doing, with how she strives to never hesitate in even the smallest of things. Beneath the waning lights is the pale form of another. He peruses the grasses, seemingly intent on storing the energy like a bear before the first snowfall, and in her eyes he is rather conscientious for doing so. Moving closer, still rather unnervingly silent with her careful steps and gracefully slow movements, she calls out in her soft voice to the young male standing in the dying colors ahead of her. "Good evening. Would you mind if I joined you?"
Despite her physical age her words and tone are serene, like a mystic or isolated goddess, and there is a wisp of a smile, warm and unassuming, on her face as she speaks it. Pausing a respectful distance away she awaits his reply, bloody red eyes kindly but reserved as they lingered upon his form.
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