[open] back to your roots; any

[Isilya]

This was home, once. She knew it was, knew that deep down in the earth the land was still the same as it once had. She could feel some similarities, but the surface had been scarred and reshaped. For years the Dale had been calling her home and now that voice was silenced into nothing. But still Isilya had come, still she needed to see with her own eyes that the Beqanna of her birth and of her childhood was no longer. Perhaps it could be home again? That was the thing tugging on her now that there was no longer any real connection to this place. It could still become a home for her. She felt disconnected from it - from the land, from those that inhabited it. How long had she been gone? Were her parents still here, still alive? Did she have any new siblings, nephews, nieces? Would there be anyone who knew who she was? The little magician all grown up. She’s dressed in white like the season - soft white flowers bloom among the vines that twist and curve down her spine before ending in her tail. Although the flowers look delicate, they’re strong enough to withstand the chill (aided by a little magic, of course). Isilya isn’t so sure she is strong enough to deal with this season, however. She’s been distracted in her head but a quick gust of chilly air drops her harshly into the present moment and she realizes she picked the worst time to come home again. Why didn’t she come in spring - when she was quite literally in her element? Even her golden skin and points don't shimmer in the grey vastness of this winter afternoon. Not only is everything utterly unfamiliar but she has no idea where to go from here. Naturally she drifts towards one of the few trees that grow in the meadow, seeking what little shelter their leaf-less state can provide her. At least she feels calmer when she can feel the roots directly beneath her hooves - when she can touch her shoulder to the bark of the tree and feel the life that’s slumbering within it. Spring might have been a more poetic time to return - renewal, new life - but winter will just have to do. Her bright eyes, gold and green hazel, scan the meadow. Her natural inclination to trot around and greet absolutely everyone that she can is tempered by the chilly wind and the unfamiliar-but-familiar land she’s standing on. She feels shaken and uncertain for the first time in her life. Perhaps, she thinks, standing here next to this nice tree for just a little bit longer will help her gain her courage. soft and sweet

art by azagus

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