The cool autumn-chilled air gently caressed the winged stallion’s body, sending little shivers down the Pegasus’s spine. His silken coat was now covered in dirt and debris from his relentless days of travel, and a thick layer of sweat encased his large body. Traveling in late Tallsun had been a terrible idea, he admitted. The heat of the long summer days could only be avoided by flying at a high speed, using the wind to cool his body, but even then the sun would beat tirelessly down on the ebony and ivory brute through the thin cirrus clouds.

Drachen was relieved that the everlasting Tallsun had finally ended. He had always wanted to see the trees transform from their usual green to rich fiery colors of various reds and oranges. His old land had been mostly made of deserts and cliffs, the only living plants dry and brittle; their only colors brown and charred black—afterall, the land wasn’t called the "Land of the Dragon’s Fire” for nothing.

Remembering his homeland brought his mind back to his past, to the past that he ran away from. It haunted him every day, the past. In his dreams, his thoughts, every time he closed his eyelids, he saw it. Sees his father’s dead body on the ground where he found it laying, blood pouring out from the gaping wound in his throat, staining his onyx coat a deep crimson. He still remembers her face—Sakima’s face—as she looked over the scene. Her cherry bay baroque face frozen in some sort of sadness, yet the glint in her eyes made it clear to Drachen. The Pegasus knew he was staring at the King's murderer then, yet she turned to him and pointed an accusing finger at him. “He did it.” He remembered her words clearly, “I saw him. He slaughtered his own father.”

The winged creature stopped a striped hoof and tossed his long matted tail against his hocks at the revolting memory. How dare that mare blame such a thing on him, leaving him as an outcast of his own lands?! An annoyed snort escaped through his flared nostrils in his anger. He picked up his gate to a fast gallop with his wings tucked firmly against his sides, the soft sound of his hooves pounding on the forest floor freezing all of his current thoughts and slowly soothing his frustration.

As his anger evaporated, so did his speed. A steady trot took over the quick gallop. He continued at that gate until it became rhythmic. Legs moving stealthily yet graceful, leg muscles stretched and contacted, hair flew behind him in tangled locks, wind blew in his face and ruffled his wing feathers, Drachen was in his element. His eyelids slid shut as he flung his head back, a loud call trumpeted through his parted lips, a deep baritone note that ricocheted off of the green-leafed trees as he chased the setting sun under the horizon.

trust your heart if the seas catch fire Sunlight gently stroked her dark body as she moved across the Threshold, fingers of light peeking through the tree canopies to bask upon her sleek hide. The forest was drenched in a serene sort of silence, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves and the rhythm of her slackened gait. She peered ahead of her somewhat vacantly, thinking, when a faint cadence of hooves striking the soil entered her earshot. Gradually it amplified, though the recession lessened, diminished to an easy trot. The celestial dame turned to locate the orchestrator, her eyes settling upon a bi-chrome figure not so far away. Her eyes ran over his masculine physique, studying, greedily drinking in his eccentric appearance. Cassiopeia had never seen an individual quite like the one before her, and her curiosity was far too strong to simply evanesce the urge to bring him home. She stepped lightly through the underbrush, the waxy leaves bristling past one another, likely warning him first of her approach. Had that not been heeded, the mare nickered to him rather loudly, answering his trumpeting call. "Good day, brother!" She said as she trotted graciously toward him, seeking to close the distance. "I am Cassiopeia - Dragon's Throat Oracle. Might I ask your name?" She looked into his eye only to find it was milky and distant with pink veins of healed flesh weaving all around it: scars. He was blind. A variety of raw imperfections clung to her own hide, mantled by narrow steams of discolored hair and faint impressions in the flesh - newly acquired scars nearly healed, though not quite. They marred her previously flawless complexion, serving as an unsightly reminder of the famished carnivore who had deigned her as suitable prey. Perhaps they would fade with time, but for now, they were still fairly new additions to the dame's anatomy. It didn't seem to bother her much. In fact, it mattered little to her, for she had never been a vain creature. She was alive and her child was healthy, and for that, she was thankful.