If only Amaris knew how old Yael was - and furthermore, in the land where she’d left her kin - there were those who were far older than she, that some of her very own children would live until the end of the world if they so chose. Some of them deserved that gift (yes, she thinks of it as a gift, believing in the eternal duty to do good, to try and change the world for the better - their lives are so brief, how can they possibly accomplish anything against the ever encroaching tides of evil?), like Gaza, her kind-hearted son made in the image of his sire. Kitra, on the other hand, with as much love and respect as she had for her mother, was a brat and petty and used her wiles to her own ends - and as much as Yael would mourn her beautiful daughter when she passed, she knows the mare has contributed little to the world other than a pretty face. Kitra does not deserve immortality.

Does Yael? Even a half version of it? Some might say it’s her time to go, having lived a normal lifespan twice over. As much as she hates to admit it, aging frightens her, it gives her a sense of anxiety and need to do it all and see it all before she no longer can.

Now that the pair step in time, Yael is able to take note of details that previously escaped her attention (smoke and fire will do that, you know): while she finds the dragon wings unremarkable, the plates and curves of scales across the mare’s head, throat, chest, and wings give her pause. She remembers half-horse, half-(insert species here) in B’kanna, but in Xelovia that is not the case. Pegasi and unicorns and mostly-horses they have galore, but no one who displays traits of two species equally. A warm, but scrutinizing gazes washes over Amaris accordingly, and while they are not quite sizing each other up, she catches the same appraisal in the other.

A soft chuckle and sheepish grin flush across Yael’s face. “True, but steel - perxaps I ought to stay een my dragon form, eet seems she ees far more comfortable zen I am.” Which is a peculiar thing to say, to make some distinction between the horse-Yael and dragon-Yael, but if Amaris is to get to know her, she will find the mild-mannered pegasus is far different than her fire-breathing counterpart. They are yin and yang squeezed into a tiny little body, tucking in amongst the various other secrets that have yet to be revealed. Long ears swivel to catch the woman’s story and the name of her cousin brings a spark of recognition. When the companion is mentioned, her gaze flies up to the cooing gold, returning it with a trill of her own - which is altogether different than the dragon sounds. More like a softened, forward-place ululation. Half bird call, half tribal sound. “Oh, I know xer! Not vell, but she vas telling us of a mare named Meerage, ze Dragonxeart.” There is only the briefest of pauses as the amount of dragon-ness registers as far more than coincidental. With a conspiratorial look, Yael tries to press on, but is interrupted by a question about herself.

Ah, well. Her question can wait a moment. “Not long. I came at ze end of last Fall. And even now, ah… xome ees not alvays vhat I call eet.” Nor does she call it a trap or prison or anything so derogatory, because they were kind enough to take her in and take care of her. But Yael is not the mare she once was and Xelovia carries no scrap, no iota, no inkling of the worlds she’s left behind (not yet - !). Home is what she’s trying to make it, though the progress is slow. Another friend would surely help. But back to Amaris. She slides right back into the question that flickered on the end of her tongue only moments before.

“I don’t suppose zat you vould be related on ze same side to zis Meerage… ?” Her dainty, but long head tilts slightly to one side, trying to figure Amaris out - perhaps she would be kind enough to fit all the pieces together for gilded lady.