She loves this pale landscape, where the sunlight filters down in cold rays and glistens off the snow like an infinity of crumbled diamonds - she wonders of winter's fingers drain the world of color, saving them for spring days and hazy autumn evenings when the world seems to explode with winter's lost vibrance. The demigoddess exhales in a plume of glittering dust which snakes its way lazily through the frigid atmosphere. Mother told her not to stray from their foggy home, but Israfel, ever the sanctimonious, decided that rules were for mortals whose sires did not rule the sky or light or fire, so she fled, if for a few hours, to this oasis of ice and snow. She would never get lost, the daughter of light and fire decides with a decisive nod, for her father would not let her. Vermilion eyes glance skyward to the sun crawling sluggishly overhead which illuminates her pale body carefully, like a painter running his brush over the form of his muse.

She catches movement in the sweeping basin of white below her - three pale forms, very similar to herself in color, and a blue thing. Israfel squints into the light, pink nostrils twitching with the cold and contemplation. After a moment, the filly feels her cloven toes tingle and her bones begin to burn - it spreads into her blood, onto her muscles. She exhales, but instead of condensation, it is smoke writhing into the baby blue of the sky. Hair and feather begins to catch flame, and the little knob of her horn becomes a column of fire. In a feral whoosh, the flames envelop her completely, caressing their mistress with wild hands, twisting into a pyre which reaches over the Steppe and heavenward.

And as suddenly as they appeared, the fire shrinks into nonexistence, swallowed by the snow, leaving in its traces a large, yawning aperture in the sparkling innocent surface.

She is coaxed into existence near the group; first, it begins as a spark over the graupel, the vaguest smell of smoke. Then, the fire materializes, swirling and revolving until it is a wall of writhing, twisting flame. The shapeless pyre takes form; a glimpse of wings, the peek of a flame-kissed shoulder, until the pale demigoddess stands before them and her flames seem to recede into her skin, crawling swiftly into her pores, seeping back into her blood and bones. She is grinning widely - she may even be mad. Israfel wonders if they will cower, if they will run from her, even if the flames were well away from the cavorting foals, their older brother, and the blue mare.

"Where are you going?", she calls innocently to the other children, the high lilt of her voice fluttering over the thin air like a butterfly with punctured wings. Her own wings, blessed by gold, fold smartly onto her body, catch the light in a mesmerizing play of color.

[kick me if I glossed over some important piece of your post xD or if I PP'd]