Others began to speak up at last.

A horned and winged stallion caused her to pause, to consider the blessings she had already been given in life – Silas the greatest of them, lessons to shape her by way of times tougher than most here would ever know, the gift of flight when her own ridiculous naivety had let it be robbed. There were so many to count, to name and remember, that she lost track standing there, eyes glazed as her concentration strengthened. With all of the anxious moments, the suffering and the hopelessness, Africa had been touched in one way or another by kindness. She thought of Midas who had taken her to safety from the Threshold, of Helena and Smoke the very reason air filled her lungs to date, of Cirrus who had visited her unquestioningly (the tenderness of Sun siblings, though strangers they had mostly been).

So what could Africa truly have needed from a gaseous orb with a wicked sense of humour – a gift like it called itself...

Nothing. She supposed then that she wanted it because that was the natural excessiveness of this culture. The brow-line beneath golden dragons furrowed as she considered her greed (not that she had asked for it yet to be hers).

By then another was speaking, the black and white mare the Starry-Eyed had met in passing one or two times, if even that. She glanced through the moody lighting towards the voice, eyes adjusting now and finding themselves better adapted to the midnight hour; to the eerie glow around them, reflecting off the snow. The idea voiced drew quickly the dappled mare’s attention, interest piquing beneath the forward tip of eager ears. It was brilliant, harmless! She took a step forward enthusiastically, carefully though all the same so that she did not stray too far from her roan-pelted company.

Rei agreed and soon voiced that opinion to Africa’s delight.

“I really like it too,” she revealed with an expanding smile. “Everyone here has history. Share whatever you will, this really needn’t be a competition. Just think of it as a yarn around the campfire....” Eyes fell from the intriguing black and white face to where a basket was nestled into the snow. Africa had not realised the common-interest shared between she and the painted Equine – she didn’t even remember Kahlua’s name. Meanwhile, a soft giggle spilt passed curved lips, enjoying the reference she’d made to the fire adorning her locks even if nobody else cared.

She waited then, unsure if she should simply begin, or hold off so perhaps the painted mastermind could lead off with a tale of her own.

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Words: 421
Summary: Africa agrees that the storytelling is a fantastic idea. She waits, unsure if she should begin.