Summer came with a violent streak of heat, robbing the air of the refreshing touch of spring.  Instead, the humidity clung to every branch, every leaf, every hair, every inch of skin.  Under the branches of the trees, the sunlight which filters through sticks and grows, forcing a stuffy feeling within the green glow.  However, Zyanya seems rather unaffected today, for her mind is elsewhere.  While small hooves touch lightly upon the loam, head is floating easily in the clouds beyond the outstretched arms of the forest.

Summer back home had been the best season.  The green which rushed in during spring grew more vibrant, the skies stretching above grew into a deeper blue, and the cool waters of the mountains were more refreshing.  The young foals would frolic about in the warm air, laughter cascading from every inch of the valley.  This year, summer feels out of place.

There is no familiar ringing of cherubic bells, no twinkling sound of the river, and, more than anything, no smiling faces of family.  A distance grows within the soft heart of the girl, and she finds herself unwittingly seeking some familiarity.

It is for this reason, the heat of the sun dappling her skin is not felt.  The sweat building along the graceful line of her body goes unnoticed, and the heavy damp air remains light.  The serenity of the forest breaks suddenly, when the high pitched voice of what she thinks is a stallion echoes off the trunks of the trees.  The words, frankly, make no sense to Zya, who cannot really grasp the concept of trees holding an aesthetic quality.  If she could, even then, trees never decided where to grow or how - they simply did.

Her lavender eyes search between the trees to see the slender figure with massive horns sweeping back over a delicate frame.  Approaching quietly, the girl seeks signs to clarify gender, seeing as the voice was of little help.  Turns out, the figure before her is just as ambiguous.  A beautiful picture the unicorn made, one of femininity, tall proportions, and immaculate shape.  The tiny pale figure of Zyanya shrinks in comparison, a porcelain doll.  "Hello," her voice rings out timidly, her small face upturned toward the stranger with a smile.  "Have the trees offended you somehow?"

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