Själ

While it wasn't the answer she was looking for, it was an answer, and delivered in such a way that the girl couldn't help but smile, one brow arching with amusement. "I thought that was a title you had to earn?" she protested half-heartedly, almost teasingly. His grin was wide and unabashed, and his excitement was infectious. She took a moment to look him over more closely, her gaze skimming along the one flared wing, lingering on the metal that took the place of the other. She had never seen anyone with either wings or mineral deposits on their body, and she could not quite choose between the more intriguing question.

She decided to ignore it for now. Who cared what he was or what he was made of if he could give her the answers she desired? And so she answered his query: "I'm a princess." Her head raised, her dual horns pointing to the sky like a crown, her voice taking on a lofty air. She wasn't trying to be conceited or vain, but she was quite proud despite having no proof to back up her statement; her narcissism was offset by the small smile that had taken over her features, feeding off of his glee. Was that what it was to be happy? To have fun? Having spent her first months alone with her mother, she was unsure of any emotion that wasn't one that Psyche had taught her. And from the Empress, Själ had learned neither happiness or enjoyment.

Nor had she learned love.

But despite her lack of experience, she found herself wanting the interaction with the boy to continue (was that what it meant to like someone?). He looked as though he were truly pleased with the world and with himself - two concepts that the princess struggled deeply with, having never had any answers. She wondered vaguely where he came from, who his parents were - was his mother aloof and cryptic, shoving her own regal ideals into his young mind? Was his father absent, or was he an influence that the colt had to mimic? Was that where he got the fun that bubbled up from within?

Before she could question the one-winged boy further, however, a cold voice broke through the electricity surrounding the pair. In response, the filly's face immediately fell into the passive, chilly mask that she had learned at her mother's knee. If Psyche had taught her anything, it was that such a subtle boredom in a voice meant trouble.

"He's a pegasus," the older colt informed her, and she bristled at the implication that she should have known the answer. There had been no pegasi where she came from - no one except her and Mother. Either way, a proper name for the one-winged boy was not, at the moment, her priority. "Did the metal destoy your wing?" Oh. So he was supposed to have two? She supposed that made a great deal more sense. But the boy didn't take kindly to the query, and she saw the creeping anger, the growing shame, the shadow of defiance.

It was not fun to watch someone make her new friend feel the way Mother had made her feel.

"He's right," she added suddenly, stepping lightly to the side towards the boy, as though to offer her assistance and show who's side she was on. "It wasn't destroyed. You're just jealous because there's absolutely nothing interesting about you," she added with a sneer, looking him up and down with as much distaste as her youth would permit. She had, after all, learned from the best.

Talk.

@[Zèklè]