The last time everything changed in Beqanna (at least, the change that Elegance had been alive for; she is aware that there have been several changes over several lifetimes), the Sinking of the South had given birth to this place: the Ruins. It was strange and different and far too bleak for the pegasus’ liking, but she had come here now because there was simply nowhere else left to search. ELEGANCE
Taiga, Nerine, all of the North had been lost to the fog. Tephra and it’s sister islands seemed to have been swallowed by the sea or overtaken by the storms and there was no longer a Southern kingdom (Elegance had not yet heard the murmurs of the Pampas, that one piece of the supposedly lost kingdom had been returned and was currently overseen by her own grandmother, Ryatah); with nowhere else to turn, she had come here. The few others that roamed this craggy place seemed to keep a distance from her, as if they could see her well-worn scowl or heard her cursing from a few paces away. Nobody comes, despite the several times she calls out for her sister.
Nobody, it seems, except for the winged stallion that approaches her.
Elegance is still wearing that black look and glowers at sound of hooves clattering against the stones and sediments. Her pale head turns sharply and the blue-green eyes stare straight at the sight of storm given flesh. His skin flickers with lightning strikes and the smaller pegasi begins to to tighten her gold-tipped wings against her barrel, instincr imagining that the electricity dancing along his dark hide might do more than just that.
Her voice is much higher than this, and the hours of searching for Luminesce have made it hoarse, but that doesn’t prevent the striped mare from stating, "My sister.” She side-steps, turning so that she might see him better and so that likewise, he might see her better. "We are twins, identical down to the last stripe.” A hindlimb rises and falls, stamping against the hard earth as if to emphasize those golden markings. Elegance tilts her head, waiting, watching (hoping, though she would certainly never admit it, because that would be to admit her fear) for any sign of recognition in the gray eyes of the mortal storm.
@Tumult