Dog’s yip carries over the clear region between the two forests and the river, her nose pointing outwards towards the trees on her side of the running water, as if she hears something moving at the gate, or perhaps scented it.

”Lady,” she says through our mental bond, excitement trilling across the space on invisible tethers into my less than enthused heart. Skýlos is young and vibrant, innocent and unbroken for the most part (but for all the ways I have already stunted her light), and she is always excited by the notion of meeting others in the herd. My own feelings on such things differ greatly.

An ear slips back as I think about obeying her silly need to bother everyone who breathes, the usual reservations rising in my heart as I take several deep, calming breaths of the cold air. It has been seasons since I have come here, and not yet have my blackened beasts reared their ugly heads, but each encounter with the horned and wingless creatures that I share this land with sours my chances at remaining as stoic in the face of so much opposition.

She is of no use; she could probably tell me it doesn’t have feathered wings, but if the beast is wearing leathered appendages, she won’t be able to smell them as being different than the pelts that cover the body. Horns smell of nothing. I have asked her as much.

”No feather,” she says after a pause, with a wag of her tail and the easy way she smiles with all her pink gums glistening in the sunlight.

Whoever it is calls out into the cold, and Dog yips her reply loudly, regretfully summoning the wanderer to us if they had any sense or sense of direction. Both ears fall back.

Skýlos stills her childish flailing of joy as she feels the weight of my irritation rise, white tipped tail curling beneath her, cowed against the grass as my wings stretch and I gracefully drift the expanse of water to the opposite bank alongside the dolt of a companion I have been strapped with. One of my wings sweeps low upon landing and topples Dog paw over head in passing, a cruel smile marking my face as I trot out towards the trees, out towards the call of the stranger before she can find us first.

We find her before too long, Dog keeping her distance behind me and sulkily prowling along with her mood dark and regretful; my mood is dark and agitated, not the best to be meeting a unicorn mare with, but I’ve had much practice in controlling my temper as of late. I swing to a curvaceous stop a fair distance from her, wings held firm to my sides to allow easy passage through the trees, blue eyes cold and filled with judgement.

"’Lo," I say softly, running my eyes over her again and finding her a stranger to my gaze – not that it was uncommon (I rarely leave the company of the wind and nothingness to waste time with living things), "what brings you to the realm of Midas?"

Cealestis