It seems that the field is not so deserted after all, for as you thunder around wildly, a pudgy figure jerks upwards from the grass just ahead, clearly startled from some blissful slumber. Eyes dart sharply to the form, and there are the horns…but no wings, no fire, and this one’s disappointingly brown. Wait…do you know him?
Rostislav’s familiar face comes into view as he stumbles around to face you, and you feel your heart sink. Clumsy canter slows to a jolting trot, and your expression sours. Of all the old acquaintances to run into…! You remember that you once despised him for his ugliness, the darkest of shadows in the shining light of your beauty (vanity), and now…well, it’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s safe to say that you’re much uglier than he ever was. Your face, once so delicately dished, is now distorted with age, and your hair, once so shining and well-kept, is a mere mass of tangled knots. Perhaps he won’t recognize you?
Maybe not, for he calls out to you—and not by name, though you’re sure that you gave yours to him so many seasons ago. "Please don't trample me, Miss! Perhaps I can assist you in your troubles?" Though you have indeed slowed, you eye him suspiciously. Does he know, or doesn’t he? His tone is certainly different, much softer than the lewdness he showed you on the island—but then again, what is there to be lewd about? You’re not exactly the fairest in the land any more.
“Not unless you’ve seen Fireball—or the sun god, as some fools like to call him,” you call roughly, stopping a safe distance away, hoping that if you don’t get to close, his chances of recognizing you will decrease. “He’s the one I’m looking for.”
@[Rostislav]
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