I am met with a broad and cheerful smile, any sort of strangeness between the man and myself seemingly lost in his almost childlike delight at having company. His words are half shouted, causing my ears to pull back and my features to scrunch in a wince, yet I am unable to remove the smile which finds its way to my lips almost magnetically – bringing to mind the phrase, “laughter is contagious,” though I don’t recall who said it.

A light cough breaks from my lips, the endless slip of black from lips and nostrils half dried on this day, for whatever reason, dried, crispy flakes lifting along the edges of the tear track traces they’ve left on my face, ever since that long ago hour in the Labyrinth, among the wolves. Perhaps the universe consoles me for having been deluded into attacking a herd mate, for even the strange side effects that alter my vision, scent, and hearing are oddly absent, and have been most of the day.

To my dismay, the man-boy calls the bird over to us, my smile faltering ever so slightly, a hard shine taking root in the gold of my eyes as she, regrettably, takes him up on his offer.

I pay her little mind, even as she approaches, and so I rather surprised to find the haughty little bitch has the audacity to strike at me with her dark tail. Almost immediately, my eyes sever from the playful stag to her diminutive, ebonite frame, gilded eyes narrowed with absolute outrage. The hoof that had angled in ease now slams down into the earth, all four limbs prepared for more than just conversation at the touch of her black tassels.

"You," I dictate quietly, for her ears alone (not wishing to disturb the good cheer of the older male present), a bold arrogance unusual in one so young filling the rich tenors of my voice, "don’t touch me again."

Threat laces with each note, hopefully with enough clarity that she gathers I will swiftly adjust this gathering of niceties and pictures in the snow to one of violence, blood rather than indentions tracing images across the white cloak of the Steppe.

Yet, as offended as I am at the audacity of the crownless blight, I am lured away by the innocence and delight of the ruddy stag, and so swiftly I let the hostile defenses of my figure melt back into the nonchalance of conversation.

He wants to know what we see in the snow.

I see squiggles, and frown.

At least the mare alongside me has more creativity available to her; a turtle, she answers, and I find that I am forced to look more closely and play along with this odd guess what game – missing the tilt of her eye to look upon me as she answers the stag’s second question with her name.

"Wind," I decide at last, for surely the invisible stuff looks as erratic as this, my tail curling about behind me absently as I let my gaze lift upwards to look at Kipling – I refrain from paying much mind to the bird even as her small figure stands directly next to my own, "it looks like wind."

"Rikyn," I answer truthfully, not lying as I had to Volterra, to so many others before him – mostly because the bird is no threat to me, small as a mouse, and I have little to hide from my horned kin.

It is then that they both take to drawing things in the snow, my golden eyes glistening with desires I struggle against. It is childish to draw pictures, and I am no longer a child – but the lure calls to me, beckons, it taunts and tempts, until at last I am drawn into the ethereal, sparkling world of youth, of innocence. With a sidelong and mostly hidden glance alongside me for any one who might recognize and mock me later, I lower my crown and begin to etch the lines of a tree alongside Kipling’s squiggly wind turtle.

Like an old man, laughs Xynia in my head, with a beard to match, even!



[ OOC: I prefer not to be actually. ^^ Do you like tags? :D ]