for aranea;

[burnt]

burnt.

There is no God and we are his prophets.
She skims over the surface of the roan’s thoughts, like a waterbug on a river --

There is a lack of surprise, an undisclosed uniqueness that sets the roan apart from the roan overo and the others, and a thought spared to how wings were considered strange and unusual. Burnt might have laughed at that, had she a greater lack of manners; her wings were but extra appendages, no more unique than another’s, except for the lone fact that her wings smoldered and smoked as if forever afire. But her mind dips and delves, focuses on the sharpening relief that deadens the limbs of the roan mare and makes her go almost daft with it.

Burnt then, is struck by realization - the mare is incapable of vocalized speech!

Her suspicion is confirmed the moment the mare projects her thought outwards and Burnt, being telepathic, receives it easily. She could send and receive thoughts like it was nothing, just a casual flick of her brain and she had new plateaus of information at hand. “Yes, but you do not seem all that surprised.” like others are, she almost adds but holds back - clearly, the black roan is used to this, and might once have had a taste of talking mind-to-mind before now. Burnt is not in the least bit surprised either, but she touches upon a point of interest - the roan is newly come back, from where is of no concern to her. The hunger to know what has unfolded in her absence is what interests her, and she boldly asks - “How long have you been gone from here?”

Even if she had not been able to pick through Aranea’s thoughts, she could have smelled the stink of travelling on her.