She finds herself pleasantly surprised when Dragomir comes to stand beside her. She is not one for conversation, almost always keeping to herself at these sorts of things, going about whatever task is set out before her. But she didn’t dislike Dragomir (which is, in her world, a compliment). And more to the point, if anyone at the moment understood just how she felt, it was Dragomir. And Isopia, to be fair, but Isopia lived a whole step above Syrena and her mere mortal status. It was easier, somehow, to stand beside Dragomir instead.

“As well as can be expected,” she says truthfully. She simply felt lost now. The Falls had made sense for her. But where now? The Edge held no real bodies of water, and therefore no appeal. Maybe the Throat, only because she could spend large amounts of time swimming to and from the Throat. But she’s not even sure they’d take her, given her lack of wings. Or the Basin. But did she care for the Basin either?

The land ruled by the Earth God, who was as close to a sea god as they actually had, made sense for her. But she doesn’t belong beneath the Sun or the Moon or whatever the Spark ruled.

“You?” she asks, after a moment too long. At least she remembered to ask. Remembered that this is how conversations worked. She always tended to assume that one would just offer such personal information if they felt like it, but that’s not polite or something.

She keeps an ear flicked in his direction, waiting for his answer. Though her other ear stays trained on the Yeti, because at the end of the day, she’s not here for polite conversation. She’s here for the egg in that nest on his horns. Even if she should actually be running away screaming from the Yeti if she had any sense. And soon, he’s telling them what he wants in return, shaking the ground with his fists and making his point abundantly clear as he spits on them. Where the bits of spit land on her skin, she turns red and orange beneath the warm spit. Though soon it freezes, and the color changes to blue and green.

Gross. This really wasn’t her type of water.

But he asks for a crown. She’s vaguely tempted to see if Dragomir has figured out his skill with making thing appear and if he could make a crown appear for her too. But that’s probably not how this is supposed to work. Though really, would the Yeti care? If it’s a decent crown….She cuts that train of thought off, instead trying to figure out what she can make a crown out of.

She walks away from Dragomir until she finds a patch of that weird Aura Grass that glows during Tallsun. She comes back with it, turning her head awkwardly to try and get the string of shells out of her mane. She takes a good chuck of mane with it, but manages to get the shells. She’s loathe to part with it, but if it gets her that egg…

Syrena gets to work tying the grasses into a circlet, slowly fortifying the base of a crown with the hair she’d torn from her mane. She ends up with a twirling circle of grass and hair. As it sits in the cold snow, the hair turns to swirls of cold colors – blues and purples and greens. She’s not actually sure how long that magic will last ripped from her body, but maybe if she’s lucky, it’ll last long enough to get her the egg. Or, knowing how her life has been going lately, it’s going to stop right now.

Either way though, she loops the seashells around the crown until it’s complete. She can’t help but glace to Dragomir, who’s she’s come back to while she worked, to see what he’s come up with. And to Isopia, who’s used her magic and Hubris’ to create a rather impressive creation of rock and ice. Of course.

Horses present their creations to the Yeti. She watches, finally adding in her own voice when there’s an appropriate lull in the presentations. “A crown of the Aura Grass from the Steppe, with a touch of the sea.” The shells sound like the ocean. It’s a quiet sound, but obvious enough if you listen. The constant crashing of the waves in that lulling, rhythmic way that they never cease. Hopefully the hair and, in the right season, the grasses would continue to change colors as well. It would make the crown far more impressive.

OOC: Syrena makes a crown by twirling together Aura Grass and a piece of her mane. She ties her shell string around the crown, which emits the sound of the sea.

Oh! A companion! How wonderful would it be to have someone always at her side! To take the sting of loneliness away in the dark of night, to care for - the need for something (someone) to love is great. But to have to compete for it against Lyanna? Yael privately blanches inside, covering it up with a breathy “Oh…”

Tiny pons, indeed. For all intents and purposes, Yael is a petite mare, but it seemed… a negative thing coming from his spittled mouth. Items were stolen? Well that’s rather unfortunate. Yael isn’t quite sure who would dare to steal a Yeti’s treasures. If he wants it back, they must surely be valuable to him - either for their beauty or what they’re made of.

Once again, Yael’s lack of magic in this world hinders her. She watches as Isopia and Hubris make a frozen, dangerous looking ornament, while another colt makes one of fire. Hmm. It seems the Yeti will have quite the varied selection to choose from. In the wake of her limitations, Yael decides that she must again give of herself; her shiny, gilded feathers could be quite fetching and remind the snow beast of his old crown (though she realizes it may be a non-traditional design. Her lips purse into a thin line as she glances over at Lyanna and shrugs, before reaching around to her wings.

First things first - she slides her golden wing band off, the item that the giving tree presented her with not too long ago. It blends in with the feathers at the joint, still shiny and new and untarnished by any weather mishaps. Putting that on the ground, Yael then flicks her tail to her left side and grabs a few silvery strands with her teeth. Cheeks and brow distort in a faint wince, remembering the howling white witch who last got a pieces of her silvered hair; how did she manage to get herself into such situations? She’d kept a wary eye out for the madwoman ever since then - luckily there’d been no sight of her.

On the mental count of three, Yael yanks and out several fine, glinting strands. Those are laid across the golden circlet. Now back to her wings - she reaches back for six of her mid-sized feathers. Laboriously, she wraps the strands in and out of the feathers, anchoring them to the inside of the golden circlet, so that they might rise high above the Yeti’s head. It is simple, but awfully shiny, and looks like it’s wrought all in precious gold. Picking it up gingerly with her teeth, Yael follows the rest of them and carries her creation to the Yeti’s feet, laying it delicately on the ground. “A crown of gold,” she says lightly, and then adds, “Fit for ze Keeng of ze Mountain.”

Do Yetis even like compliments?

yael

esinakh

dust to the wind

At the rumble and flying spittle, the strange filly skitters sideways, just barely avoiding the offensive and disgusting spray. She bleats loudly, frightened, as her bleached eyes widen and follow the impressive arks each glitter, spit droplet made before landing and melting the snow with their heat. Her white-banded nostrils flared, trembling slightly, as her gaze darted from spit-spots to Yeti, unsure of what to do: flee or linger. The twisted parts of her brain were screaming for her to fly; fly far, far away from this spitting beast. But those same parts also wanted her to stay; to remain in close scrutiny of the thick, white fur and symmetrical horns.

“Esi! Come see brother Theo.”

And, just like that, as always, @Arakh was the answer to her inner turmoil. Her darting eyes shot to brother calf and settled; a visible calm swept away her tremors and lessened the whites around her already-white eyes. And, with quick halting steps, she scurried over to her twin and the glowing, grey colt with him.

Ever watchful (and wary) eyes cast towards the ephemeral crown of flames ‘Theo’ made. And then they darted to Rak’s feathered headdress he offered. For a moment, the filly’s barred brow furrowed, soft and small lips marred with uncertainty. Should she make one for the spitting ice lord? What could she make?

And then, with an almighty tremble, a chunk of ever-present, wet clay along her spine leapt in to a jagged, uneven crown. It was soft, needing to be tempered by flame, but it still was a crown for the Yeti. She swayed, in unsettled thoughts, gaze shooting between the adorned crowns and her simple sharp, grey, jagged one (though, let it be known, the jagged edges were symmetrical).

So, hesitantly, she edged towards her offering and carefully placed her beaded feather decoration along the crown’s front piece. Taking care to not touch the clay (and thus get it on her), she ordered the beads and feathers into perfect harmony on her grey crown.

And, when satisfied, her eyes swung towards @Mathèo , “You glow. And clean. Esi like you,” her shy voice was given with a soft smile on her small, grey lips.