[private] he laid low the warriors of old; burnt

[burnt]

burnt.

There is no God and we are his prophets.
Burnt seethes;

Her gifts are diminished, if not outright stolen from her!

Sure, she has wings still but they are uglier than she could ever think possible.

(It is only because they do not smoke and spit embers like before.)

They are snowy white like before, but they resemble something pure that she is not nor will ever be.

Briefly, she thinks of her family - Sinew and Extinct; how changed are they? Sinew, her mother is probably not changed much and if she had been, she’d not care or show it. Extinct though… half-mammoth must now be all horse and uglier than usual. Burnt does not dare look for them, believing that all of this has happened for a reason though she cannot fathom why the constant burn of her wings is gone or her telepathy has been taken. Now, her mind seems so small and narrow, too shut in for her to stomach and it makes her sick to think that she cannot touch upon other’s brains and pick through the lovely dark halls of them.

Even more briefly, she thinks of Topsail - the dark queen that shared the same ability as her to rifle through minds. How has the grulla mare fared? Beyond that faint first spark of caring, Burnt cares no more and passes like a swift dark shadow through the forest. She knows this place well enough though maybe not half as well as the meadow. The bubbly gold of his fur catches her pale storm-laden eyes in the midst of the forest dark; the lines of him are fierce and soldierly but he looks oddly at peace, his lips hovering scant inches above the petals of a sickeningly pink flower. She still seethes, like a storm contained in bay roan frame overo flesh, at the loss of the things that made her who she was. Burnt feels a little lost now, not that she could openly admit it and she envies his outward projection of peace in the face of so much upheaval.

His calm bites at her, as she comes close and she harbors sinister thoughts of stomping that pretty pink flower to bits. She can imagine the horror that would chase the calm from his face if she did this very thing, and it brings a smile to her lips, sly like a fox’s. “Does it smell good?” she barks at him, the snap and pop of timber burning is how her voice sounds - crackling, and fierce.