There is something different here. Well, no, not here. I Have been here since the passing of winter into spring, fled on the same heels as everyone else from wretched Isilme. So it's better to say that there is something different now.

Perhaps I'm just unused to the seasons in this world, what is it, Helovia. It is a place that seems to worship the sun above all else, so perhaps heat is prevalent here. Strange still that they would have so many cold climate areas to wander, such as this snow dusted tundra. Perhaps it's a rare treat from an unusually cold frostfall, otherwise Helovia is typically bare of white fluff and translucent rock. Perhaps.

It's more than the heat though, I realize. I feel, weak. That's really an understatement though. I've always felt weak. No one has certainly wasted time telling me I'm weak.

Does my tail drag more than normal? It feels oddly heavier. My ink seems less willing to flow from the tips, and my drawings are more likely to splatter. I've been so reclusive lately perhaps I'm just out of practice, having less need to force communication. All the same, it's strange.

I am stirred from my internal banter by the dropping of a pine needle on my backside. This would not be very unusual, except that I hadn't noticed very many trees in this flat area. In childish wonder I lift my head. I blink against the rather bright sun of the day. Through the fiery haze I catch the outline of a most unusual and often dangerous creature.

In an earlier time I would have startled more than I did. I cannot deny fear grips my heart, though more from surprise at the animal than worry for my life. I very much know she would have killed me long before that needle fell on my back - though I suppose even the most predatory of predators can be caught unawares.

My legs stiffen and my neck braces as I sink awkwardly onto my haunches. Like the scattering of bird wings in a disrupted flock so feels the racing of my pulse. I am a stronger Ink than I once was though. Disregard that I mentioned feeling weaker, this strength is an emotional one. Ever since meeting Roanne the Sentinel in the shape of a stag, a very odd meeting if ever there was one, I had come to be more respectful of those unlike myself. I figured I couldn't very well hate everyone for sneering at my differences if I so hastily did the same. You could say I turned into quite the forest-walker, pausing at every curling flower petal and twitching squirrel tail. I like to think I find an inner peace when walking through the hush of the woods. There's a natural calm to the world amidst an equally natural chaos. Peace comes normally, but I suppose so does violence, if the wolves and the eagles have anything to say about their torn corpses. I can't seem to find anything but the latter of both with my own kind. It's possibly the fact that I am different, a horse rather than a squirrel, that I do not see or understand their chaos and their violence. Maybe we just are only capable of seeing the worst in ourselves. It certainly feels that way.

I've gotten rather off track. This griffin must think I'm mental, sucked back like some fearful git that can't even get the nerve to complete fleeing. I never was fleeing though, just shying. I get myself back in order, though I have rescinded a step or two, still unsure of those talons and that beak. Still, she is beautiful. A soft slate gray of fur and feathers that nearly mesh with the tree limbs. I tilt my head, enthralled by this encounter. Tentative, I lift my muzzle towards her in equine greeting, blowing out warm air in a stream of condensation. From my tail I hope to craft one like her, but it feels more draining than I remember to paint.

Maybe I'm dehydrated.