Despite the change in weather, the eventide had dressed the décor with an eerie chill, fog draping like dense ectoplasm on the vegetation. It slithered under her frail steps, hooves delving into the plush pillow of moss which seemed to cough vapor from betwixt their cadenced comingling. The pale veil of moon-glow filtered through the cobweb of gnarled branches that tangled above, making her auburn flesh somehow otherworldly. She was a specter, onyx muscles not seized by light amalgamating into seamless obscurity, the only conspicuous characteristic to attribute to her presence the gentle flow of vanilla mane and the sapphire sparkle of anxiety-glazed eyes. Her head was low, her gait a graceless trudge as though she were certain a single misstep would result in the world caving in. Where was she going? Where did this lead?

Silence becomes her, the spectral radiance of her cerulean gaze burning with speculation. She is alert, the velveteen ovals of her ears pulled delicately forward; she listens as she speaks, and she discovers herself quieted by the tenor of her authenticity. Her syllables are delectably saccharine, her sentiments appeasing in their implicit purity. With caution upon the soft rim of her toes, a leg is pulled forward, hesitation encumbering the nimble curve of her ankle, though still, it drives forward. She plays into her palm − a kitten drunk off isolation and desiring fingers beneath its chin − though just as her hoof threatens to kiss the plush pillow of vegetation, another voice claims the tranquil taciturnity of their engagement. Just as she found herself on the verge of trust, she recedes, limb pulled in and firmly planted, eyes scurrying to hurriedly consume the onyx flesh of a piebald woman.

She lacked the familiarity of a horn, her semblance plain despite the alluring beauty of white against black − flint and opal. She spoke eloquently, she sang sweet harmonies of family of a jovial homage with open arms awaiting her conformity. Whetted kissers were drawn thin, her heart soaring now with a flame of resolution. Her embers kindle with confidence. “Flordeperia,” she pipes, her voice an angelic purr as a fractal of impurity glints in the shadowed corners of her stare. “I’m not one for honesty, however−” she pauses, a smile curling into silken cheeks, “since we’re all women here, I don’t think it fair to recruit me into your homes, or aid me without knowledge of my person. Don’t you agree?” She questions, her consideration darting thoughtfully to their faces.

A reptile of prototypical fire and brimstone, an antediluvian beast whose charred throat could extinguish an entire acre with a single sweltry breath. She was enticed, though also warded – a tempest rising in the bowels of her resolve – for as much protection as the ember basilisk catered, she also feared the retribution it could afford should her sedition turn against her allies. Such a fickle temptress she was, her allegience never fully salvaged; her heart an reverberant chasm
of disloyalties. A tender lick of her lips was given, the cogwheels of her calculation orbiting with meticulous mentation. I agree with you my dear, – snap. All thoughts were abandoned on the echoing growl of his voice.

A shudder, the quivering melanisms of her skin refracting in the panicked phosphorescence of her eyes. Run, run, the taciturn of her consciousness breaks, now shrieking for liberation. Her chest is a rampant engine, her heart, soaring. What is that, her mind outcries, what is he? His wings, silken membranes, folded gently at his shoulders; the tousled pincurls of his ornamented head scarlet as leaking lifeblood. A ghost, surely – a demon, perhaps.

Though his speech, his pallid mouth, how it warbled in a melody which deviated from the macabre architecture of his ogre-like countenance. Flordeperia was bewildered, but sated; though ever-so-gently did the sails of her course change, her body tilting toward the gilded-horned amazonian, who had yet to speak. Though it appeared she didn't have too, as suddenly her loin was employed by yet another man, another menace, another source for consternation. She was becoming exhausted, her vigor purloined by the wicked wayfarers whose eager maws were bejeweled with decorated advocating. Overwhelmed, she receded – the threadbare of her tolerance already thin with the happenings only two days before. The murder, the grisly assassination of her now presumably digested chevaliar.

Although presently, she had all but voided their existences, nullified their appearances in a veil of shadow, she still listened. She was still desperate, still in dire requirement of a domicile befitting her prudish necessities. The mountains – only one path in and out – the pinnacle of a safe-haven, of an oasis ripe for her pleasance. there must be a reason as to why you came here, be it out of boredom, loneliness or perhaps you were fed up of your old life – her gaze flickered, annoyance in their glow. You know nothing of my purpose here, she wanted to scream, you know nothing of what I've just endured! Or maybe, you're an outcast.

Perhaps she was. If she thought about it, really, would her old family really accept her now? Now that she had betrayed them. Even if she went back, they were still weak; they were nothing but women, nothing but a group of imbeciles feigning glorification and invincibility. They were fools.

She was pulled from her embittered musings, the mare who had discovered her terminating the silence that had befallen them. Her brows narrowed, clipping the innocence of her eyes into almond-shaped portals of defiance. Finer quality? Flordeperia stepped from the refuge of the entangled branches, her mouth thin with immovability, and her ears pulled flatly against tousled ecru curlicues. “Lets go,” she purred, speaking to Illynx, her head held at a perfectly queenly elevation as she sashayed behind Descaro, affording him a quick swipe of the turquoise ringlets of her tail in a teasing, come-hither fashion. She may have been an outcast but her place was certainly not with riffraff.