She coasted blithely, enjoying the mixture of cool autumnal winds as they caressed the tender places of head, throat, and breast. Wings beat with a purpose set aside from leisure however, she flew to complete a duty – rosy eyes were sharp and ears attentive to what went on in the places of drowsy shadow and murky light below. The warm glow of daylight upon this realm wilted with the onset of dusk, only the horizon above the treetops remained ignited, and Godiva felt that her time here was being drawn to a close, for the advantage of her eagle’s eye was lost and restrained by the darkness.

Startlingly flexid wings stretched wide, she slowing and poised to pirouette and return to warmer desert winds from which she had arisen – a cry though, was reason for pause. Weather pain or bliss, anger or fear, or even the simple meshing of birdcall and breeze, the lady did not know. Her fine face, those features never bred to exhibit hardness or any furrows reminiscent of the ugly world, darkened with suspicion – lids drawn low into slivers of heated carmine, soft dark lips tightening; flying into the unknown was an undesirable requirement. The angle of her flight swerved to align with the area of treetop still echoing with the sound, and as it came again, she became more certain, more confident in it’s nature. A calm, drawn whinny was projected from her own being, the sounds quieted as she found a place to land, circling, then descending unto the deeper shadows of earthly dominion swallowed in twilight.

The shudder of impact still traveled from leg to trunk as she trotted forward, a buoyant and effortlessly light trot carrying her forward, neck gently craning toward him with the glad inquiry that flowed warm and soft from her lips. “Pheonix? Blētsian se sunne.” She brushed her muzzle against his shoulder in a show of platonic camaraderie, but when her head rocked back to return to it’s high held poise, a troubled look had settled upon her face, deepening the shadowed contours. “Tis best that we make haste, for I know not what lurks here, in the place of setting sun. Witching hour nears, and there is word of fell deeds in the Southeast, the realms in which the Sun should rise and illume.” They stood upon the western soil, where the sun set and darkness blossomed. She held no trust for this place, and never would.

The stallion’s merry return of her greeting was cause for some tension to fade; it always seemed easier to be at ease in the company of a fellow, though despite the abatement of worry, her attention had not waned in the presence of additional security. Night spread too swiftly for her liking, swallowing all in an artful pitch that dulled her superior vision, and painted every scene that her eye swept across in an uncanny likeness…every dimly outlined tree the same, each rock without definition, the underbrush a solid curtain of shadow.

With little fanfare, aside from a gentle toss of her head to resettle heavy locks, Godiva began to turn; dimples of bunched muscle already were upon the porcelain and lilac uniform of her speckled rump – haunches coiling and prepared to fly away, free from this place of unfamiliarity. Distrustful of the Threshold, hooded lids that had before projected a sharp gaze blanked momentarily in honest surprise, his question one that had not been expected.

The contemplative lady gave pause for a moment, before the darkness of her velvet chin dipped in approval, lips hidden briefly by the depth of shadow pooled within her neck’s dramatic curve. A hoof caused her stance to sway, head curving to peer back at him. She thought often of honor and duty, and the other equine’s awareness was cause enough for a plaintive answer. "A coward? Nay, but my word is not yet one that holds weight in the Dragon's Throat."

Some quiet amusement lie hidden in the rolling melody of soft words, though subtle in deliverance, 'yet' was a revelation of intention far more blatant than her norm. The steady flow of her voice continued. "That answer can only be provided to you upon your return, if you truly wish to know. But take heart, thine actions would be cowardice if you denied your fellows the opportunity to respond. Now you give them a chance to show mercy, an effort that may not go unnoticed." Her words, though spoken in their perpetual manner of quiet and calm, were not gentle. Godiva had been born into the role of protectorate, not judge, and therefore she did not condemn, but she was no creature of leniency.