I paint you a picture,
but it never looks right,

The world had become something of a distant thought, an unspoken existence that lingered outside of her mind but never infiltrated it— she was left oblivious and forgotten, nestled among the ruins of a time long past. The flora grew to accommodate her pristine figure, to accept her as a shimmering piece of the landscape that might catch the eye of a weary traveler once in a millennia. Rumour spreads of the sleeping goddess deep within the woods, whose skin is translucent and heart still thrums beneath her pure shell— that at her side is an owl made purely of night, with moons so tremendous and wide that even the most fearless tremble before him.

Children decorate her slumbering body with flowers that wither and wilt upon her head with time, few make offerings and gifts to the eerie goddess and her all seeing companion, asking them for various things that she cannot provide. They ask her for luck in battle, for a miracle that cannot be given, for a healthy foal or magic to cure a disease taking over a loved one— they receive no answer, but leave confidently as though they had. On occasion a startling gust of wind or conveniently placed sun ray will inspire a series of 'thank you's, followed by tears and overwhelming glee. If only they'd known that they never were praying to a goddess, that she was no mythical deity to give praise and honour— she is something ruined, something broken and fragile and hopeless.

And so she rises before them all, with fluttering lids that have filtered shallow sunlight for far too long, her once saturated and vibrate eyes now a pale surface of colour— just another memory. There are children and elders witnessing her rise, unsteady legs and uneasy adjustment making for a peculiar awakening, ('O goddess! You finally wake! We are greatly honoured to witness such an event! Accept our offerings, O wise deity!") but she cannot look at the boys and the men— she looks at the little fillies with their twinkling eyes filled with exasperation, mouths agape at witnessing a false goddess readjust to the weight of existing once again. They bow before her but she will not acknowledge it, instead her Lior takes his place upon her back, watching carefully her followers as they watch her go. At their hooves are fruits and animals, beautiful tapestries and art created with painstaking strokes— the sophisticated works remind her too much of a land she has long forgotten, bringing back the burning in her heart that makes her want to cry. 

"Et nimium diu," her Lior coos, soft and familiar in the hollow confines of her mind. She smiles, bittersweet and almost painful— Sic.

Like a crumbling halo, the dead and dry flowers that wrap around her ears are withering away, falling to pieces as she journeys to the only place familiar to her— she longs for that familiarity of the Edge, where the mists consume the body and caress the mind, and she finds thrill in the idea of waltzing off the cliff. Ubi est Mauja? Ayelet is curious as to what has become of the Frostheart, whether he has fared well since she has been gone, or has suffered since her departure—

"Quare?" The question is simple, it shouldn't be this difficult to recall— crystalline brows knit together and her lips are sealed, because although she wishes she didn't, she remembers very well the intolerable throbbing of her heart. The false goddess remembers the ache of her soul as she was consumed by the past, launched into one painful memory after another, left to suffer the consequences of her cleared mind. She had been desperate, so much so that she rammed her temple into a rock to see if she could dispel the harsh memories— they remained. Ayelet knows well her next move, losing herself in the forest to get away from such a dense populous, curling up beneath the weeping branches of a gnarled willow tree and begging for a moment of peace. She was gifted with more than just a moment, where her body became but an empty shell with a whisper of a soul tied to it, and her Lior's fatigued mind glued to her side. How long was she there for?

She does not answer her guardian, keeping her eyes focused on the worn path before her, treading lightly through the pines until coming upon familiar earth, where the soil was damp and the mist clung to her glass skin. Her Lior screeches and trills, a call to the residents, an unnecessary announcement made to make sure they all knew of his arrival. Ayelet's ears slide back, sun bleached eyes glance back at the dark companion out of irritation. With ruffled feathers and hesitant steps, they wander further into the Edge.

I paint you a picture,
but it never looks right,

Her Lior is quick to take notice of the approach, having taken flight after his triumphant scream, eager to see who will come crawling to him— "Venit ad lucem!" He is all too proud for is own good, confident as the silver gaze catches on a wildly painted giant, and Ayelet's ears fall back at the unfamiliar face. Quis est ille? Her eyes focus on the direction from which he'll come, the thrumming of her heart quickened by the possibility of a titan in her midst— a powerful warrior built for the destruction of an entire generation.

His voice is deep, a resonating bass that has her taking cautious steps back, for she is so very afraid. She is, to no surprise, afraid of Man even now, terrified of what possibilities they each bring, the weapons they wield— whether it be their hooves or horns or teeth, or their silver tongues and wicked ideas. Their intentions are never good. Ayelet cannot bring herself to run away, to beg for his mercy and hope that this man's heart is warmer than the rest, that it hasn't rotted away into all consuming darkness. The false god lowers her gaze, for she cannot even look upon the giant and his petite companion. She fears they will disapprove, that they will not appreciate her faded eyes and ruptured features— what will they think about her withering flora and pulsing heart? About the fatigue so evident in her clear expression, about the prideful owl at her hip, who had begged for their attention despite Ayelet's discomfort.

Tembovu, he introduces himself as, with dark eyes caught up in the deep thrum of her exposed heart, as is everyone's gaze when they stumble upon her— she is a unique and eerily beautiful work of art, crafted at the hands of merciful gods who found her early demise a pity. They sought only to make her life better, to let her pick up where she left off, but found that her vastly empty mind was not optimal for her to continue her life— they let her go off on her own, to create a new life that she never wanted.

"No, you are new to me, Fera Regis." Ayelet's words are soft and barely audible, a whisper upon the wind, lost to the mists as her eyes explore the twists and turns of the roots beneath her feet. "Left when Mauja was still a King, I was Moon Doctor." She left upon a whim, desperate to escape the pressures of her existence when the demand for it was at an all time high— she crumbled beneath the pressures of such necessary existence, struggling to accept her place as someone important. Too much clashed in her mind, and Ayelet began to drown in her memories, in the abuse she faced at the hands of men. For weeks straight she would see solely the twisted face of her child looming over her gaping body, witnessing her own mother die slowly and painfully with a smile upon her face. The delicate woman attempted to get rid of the memories, to beat them out of her until she found that it was no use, that her shattered temple had done nothing to help with the pain, and that she was destined to suffer for eternity.

She takes a moment to remember who she is, what purpose she has here among the clouds— she could have gone anywhere, but she chose to go here, where the familiarity was comforting and she felt content hidden within the mists. "Ayelet," is what she gives him, unable to offer anything more to the titan king and his elephas companion.

The companion edges closer to her, with its gray snout extended towards the crack along her underside— a sick reminder of how she died, there for Ayelet to reflect upon each and every time her eyes ghost over it. She was made to never forget why she is here now, and who has given her this cursed body. Her response is immediate upon seeing the companion reach for the damaged surface, ears sliding back and body flinching away from the touch (even though she will not feel it). Her Lior senses her discomfort, swooping down to scream at the curious elephant with fire burning within his silver eyes, a flurry of midnight wings that are an attempt to ward away the elephant. He screams and howls, damning the companion for her lack of manners— the curses he rattles off are enough to make Ayelet unhappy, her face scrunching up to display the discomfort and malcontent consuming her. Subsisto, Lior, she rarely stands against him, rarely speaks out against his behaviour— but now is not the time to throw a fit, he must realize that he cannot threaten whatever gets too close to her, even if she grows uncomfortable beneath another's hand. She must do it herself.

"Your socius is observant, but keep her distanced. Lior does not like others." He ruffles up his feathers, squinting at the Fera Regis and his companion, still wary of their intentions— just as Ayelet is, but she will not show it.