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The woman seems entirely out of her element in this situation, which I’ve come to find unusual among pretty girls; most of them seem to be entirely too confident, though I prefer their brazen, queenly natures to this piteous coyness. Part of me starts to think that maybe she’s new here, too, because this Skyfall fellow is surely more at ease with being involved in a conversation than she is. I respond to her nod with a broad smile and cordial return bob of the muzzle that is sincere, the usual elation at being respected for no reason roiling through me, the sort to take for granted the fact that I’d been given confidence by those around me; the smile cloaks a wonder as to why any of our people would be ashamed of themselves.
Zyanya, she says, quietly, then again, as if she has to remind herself she’s who she is, or bolster herself to being okay with that. Unlike the feminine peculiarity called Skyfall, who sweeps to her like a doting mother, I simply look over at her with wonder, as I do any unicorn who lacks pride, or strength of spirit. Does she not know she is beautiful? That her blood is that of the Gods, each strand of her genome hand crafted by Divine Light, given to this earth as a gift for the stars to look down upon?
Skyfall does. His easy temperament even manages to draw me from the tumultuous cascade of thoughts that are brought to mind at the sight of Zyanya’s shyness. A smile and a stream of genuine laughter reward his peculiar choice of words, at first, because, well, it’s funny.
"Somewhere between," I answer truthfully, "there are four kingdoms in this land, ruled by the four Gods who made it. Each realm has its own merits, I’m sure, though I’ve only ever lived in one. The wilds also provide for those who would follow their own laws, as many of my friends and I have chosen." Smiling, more at the inside knowledge of “my friends” than anything else, I continue. "Perhaps the better question is what sort of place you would want to be."
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