I am glad that whatever unpleasantness had to pass between the raven and myself, it was swiftly ended, and that the russet stallion seems to take little if no notice. That the wench is so easily pushed, that she knows her place, it eases the tensions I’d felt towards her almost instantaneously.

And so the day continues in a positive light, one in which I feel superior to everyone who stands around me – for while the stallion is older than me, and perhaps has seen more of the world than I have, my initial suspicions that he is slightly mad are revealed as more than likely true as he brings to mention strange things (and that he is mad doesn’t really bother me – the snows of my youth had harbored many moony eyed and dreamy minded characters, and, despite my family’s intolerance for the hornless, their understanding and compassion towards the less fortunate of their own kind seemed, to me anyway, evident in even the darkest heart; I suppose I only hope that he is not violent).

Sky turtle?

It is somehow familiar, even though it’s weird. My golden eyes narrow in thought, tassels swaying gently behind me as I ponder why I would feel like I understand the strange thoughts of unhinged men. And, while I think, the soft sound of the strangely lilting accent that the dark mare carries breaches the air, her words drawing a smirk of mockery – we’ve almost all seen a dragon. This is Helovia.

But, the snarky thought seems to dislodge whatever mental blockage lay in the way – and suddenly, the image of a floating island bleeding pink petals fills my thoughts, a blue tent and a race in which we had all been goats! flooding the reels of my memory.

"The Earth Turtle?" I ask, using the name my mother had called the creature by – I don’t believe he’d told us as much, when we’d begun the race at the foot of the magical appeared mountain in the floating realm (the realm we had reached by clouds, much to my childish glee), "I met him once. He turned the unicorns all into goats, and we had a race."

The memory makes me smile, gilded eyes sparkling with bright joy found in the remembered upward rush, a faint chuckle absently playing about my lips – how I had almost won, even though I was still only half the size as most of them, my little goat legs bounding and leaping with such freedom that I almost wished I could stay that way, then.

"I guess now that I think about it, he’s my favorite turtle too. Though, I’ve only met one."

In good spirits, I actually manage a smile as I turn towards Imonada, her voice directed towards me as she praises the tree I sketch in the snow; I find that the smile lingers, what resentments I’d felt toward the little winged thing ebbing further away from my active imaginings (she’s so small, I think again, wondering how on earth the wind doesn’t throw her from the heavens when she flies; Aithniel was strong, and muscular, proud of baring in comparison to this diminutive creature).

I am about to respond to her complement when I find my words stolen away by the sudden, and desperate, explanation from the cheerful loose screw; the pleading tone stirs something in me, something that I quickly steel away behind masculine sensibility. I refuse to let any sort of pity soften my thoughts of him - though it is there, still, fluttering against its bars.

Blessedly, the bird takes the stage, as most women do in moments of heightened emotion, something in their motherly souls craving the ability to subdue the distraught. I gladly let her take the stage, nodding in agreement at the appropriate parts (and I agree, my home had taken me in again graciously after my wandering – I think of my father, his love, and smile), calmly going back to the finishing touches of the barren branches of my tree as she asks for assistance with her drawing.

What she could learn from the artistry of the squiggle maker was beyond me. I keep my mouth sealed on such matters.

""