In her solitude she was bogged down by the images of the only past she could remember; her body the burning star stolen from the skies alongside her parents. The cruelty of enslavement, the harshness of the unicorns that took in the winged like her and stripped them of their flight, of their freedom. She had sacrificed so much, but she had only lost one thing long after her escape and recovery--her dignity. Her ability to say that she knew those who knew her, that her achievements and goals were worthy of making note, of tackling them until their completion. She didn't know who she was then, nor did she know who she wanted to be.

She lost herself.

Yet when in company it always seemed to be with those she feared most; the horned found their way to her just as she found ways to avoid them, except they played the game better. She couldn't quite figure out how she was supposed to both expose herself in order to move on yet keep hidden enough to move beneath their gaze. She was merely a lost scent to their bloodhound noses.

The call was met with deft, fluid movements of her attention toward the originating point; at first she nearly missed him among the pastels of the winter season, but once her eyes fixated on his horn there was no pulling them away. He got closer and she wanted to run but then he spoke again and her chance of flight vanished with the closing distance. She held her breath instead and let the words tumble past her. 'Aurora Basin' sent chills further than even Frostfall could reach, the name ringing alarms in her mind as thoughts traveled back to Elsa's warning. They did not take kindly to the winged like her.

She couldn't come up with an answer to his question before someone else sidled into their presence. Her heart leap at the image of another unicorn (she'd be surrounded, really, and she would have no opportunity of escape) and she managed a step or two backward from the boy. Golden gaze glazing over wings, however, stopped her trembling knees and pounding pulse slightly. As she watched the lips of the girl part hesitantly, her nerves were eased a touch--either the spotted butterfly was as naive as Serenity had been in her youth, or she knew there was a reason to not distrust him completely.
She was posed with the next question, though, and it took her a bit off guard. "It is... Serenity," the voice belonging only to the wind paused in the middle of her sentence, vision once again wandering toward him--'Cassius'--before slowly continuing. "No, not anymore." Searching for something? She was, once, but the trail died with Gaucho.