After his recent trip to the Mountain, Everclear had returned to the Gates somewhat puzzled. Something had certainly happened, but no immediate change had been apparent. The orb of light that had reached out to his brow had vanished between his eyes alongside the ethereal voice that had spoken into his mind, bidding him to “master these.” The object of that assignment had not been evident quite immediately, though over the course of the next few days it became somewhat more apparent.

It had begun as an itch upon his withers, insatiable and impossible to locate. Much as he had tried – twitching the muscles, rolling in the sand of the southern beach, raking his teeth across his flesh until his fur took on a different lie – the sensation would not leave him. The next dawn had revealed large lumps at the crest of each shoulder, tender to the touch and firm underneath with some sort of calcified mass.

Much as he wanted to trust the faeries and their magic, Everclear knows all too well that sometimes their tricks are not played in good faith. With age comes patience, though, and unparalleled acceptance of one’s fate. He had never asked for anything before and perhaps this was becoming some caution against unwarranted requests; or perhaps this was entirely unrelated.

Yet, about a week later, the truth became a little clearer when, finally, the growths had erupted into two hairless appendages. They were bare and tender to the touch, yet with time he had discovered the muscles which could move them. And in time they had begun to expose a multitude of quills which slowly unraveled to reveal silvery gray feathers.

The stallion had spent much of this time in seclusion, mildly embarrassed by the new-grown oddities until he realized what they truly were: rapidly developing wings.

His intrigue had grown then, as he had never quite desired flight in all his long years. He has seen countless others with such a gift, soaring and diving and embracing and sparring with the feathered appendages, but he had never imagined himself with a pair. Yet, as he glances at them now (still fledging and unusable at present), he wonders what it might feel like to travel airborne.

Wandering now from his hiding place within the trees of the Gates, he keeps the small limbs folded close so that the appear as little more than a bunch of pale feathers at his back, some strange sort of ruff at the base of his neck. And luckily there is a familiar figure nearby that catches his eye, a welcomed distraction.

“Deiti,” he greets her with mild surprise and, admittedly, the smallest hint of trepidation. “I had expected you might have moved on by now…” A quick glance, trying to garner her state of mind now that they are met in better lighting (the soft light of a winter’s sunrise struggles to break through a thin blanket-layer of clouds overhead). “...Have you found any peace in your struggle?” While it feels a bit uncouth to be so forthright, he still bears her goodwill and hopes that perhaps she had discovered some way to cope with the internal conflict she had displayed before.

He can still remember the fear in her voice and prays that by now it has left her.