Spring cleanses away the death of winter's breath; the gentle urgency of green grass pushing through frost; she walks toward the sound of tired river water. The soft hue of salmon pink seems harsh against the dull, murky greys and browns, but Ygritte is somber and purposeful in her walk. Her throat is tight and itches with the desire for a drink, the need making her throat hitched and jagged. She doesn't wonder why she has returned; she simply exists.


Ygritte presses her hoof against the still brittle frozen river edge to splinter, admiring the spider's web only momentarily before breaking it; she pauses, then plunges her painted lips into the icy water, a frozen kiss as she drinks. Beqanna is as it always was, a home of wayward souls, grappling for a foothold and for honor while others look for peace or even revenge. None of it pertains really to the cinnamon mare as she repositions her wings so they lay neatly along her spine. The water is cold, hurting her raw throat until it numbs, but the pain is a reminder that she isn't dreaming anymore. She is real.


Only when she has had her fill, Ygritte lifts her head, scanning with her good eye to see there are others here. Despite the early spring, the begonias in her other eye socket bloom vividly with a ferocity of life that no winter could cripple. Beqanna breathes with life, as it could never truly die, and perhaps, she mused wistfully to herself, that is why she too will go on living.

She raises her head from the long drink, a shiver capturing her for a moment, uncontrollably. The cold coats her tongue, teeth, and throat, but it feels good; it feels real, even as it consumes her for a brief moment before the warmth of her own blood replaces it. Winter ghosts will soon be driven away by the cheerful chirps and squawks of birds.


Ygritte senses she is not alone before she even needs to turn her face so her good eye can see who it is. Her senses have heightened in her lapse of full sight. It's a prickle, a thickness in how the atmosphere changes, pregnant with anticipation, but she does not feel fear. The heaviness is another sort, collapsing the energy into a tight knot.


"How do you do that?" Pausing briefly before the curiosity drips from the knot. "The flowers." Ygritte contorts her head so she may rest her good eye on her visitor, respectfully, a habit she maintained after she had left her queenship. "I believe they just are...like you and I." Ygritte speaks matter-of-factly but without the callousness. In fact, her tone maintains a gentleness and conjures a little smile from the mare.


Ygritte has time to observe her company with unabashed interest. He is not ghoulish and grotesque to her; he is not the first wendigo she has witnessed. But each time she does, she finds herself slightly lost in the depth of their darkness. Their melanistic skin, antlers, the way needle-edged teeth slip between black lips. Beautiful, if the silent fear of having your throat torn out was not a lingering thought.



Ygritte catches herself, shuddering her good eye for a moment and chuckling softly. "Apologies." She singsong the word before returning her gaze to the wendigo. "I lost my sight when I was a younger mare, and then the flowers bloomed. I suppose a reminder that even something beautiful can come from tragedy," she smiles again, " it tickles a little when they bloom." The shame Ygritte had felt for so long has thankfully dissipated. She imagines she is still beautiful in the eyes of others, but it is magic that keeps her that way, eternally, even on her darkest days. "Watch this.", a gleeful and almost foalish giggle follows. A flash of light ripples over the bay and salmon mare as though passing under dappled tree light, and her coat darkens to the rich, velvet black of a cloudless night sky, stars emerging and glittering across her skin, the begonias following suit. "Neat, huh?" She smiles broadly at the wendigo, her good eye the color of a pale moon and dancing as she loses herself in the magic, if only briefly. "Sorry, I'm Ygritte," A small shyness creeps across her expression as she titters a small laugh, "it's been some time since I've had someone to talk to."

Moonbeam's eyes flicker momentarily and return to their normal amber-honey irises, her skin following after as the black night sky brightens and she returns to her russet-and-sunset-pink form. She doesn't let her good eye leave him as he smiles (briefly!) and her heart feels a warmth. It's so strange; she finds the word endearment is the best one to describe this feeling, and oh, it is lovely! "Mutiny," with her ears pricked and a good eye resting on him, Ygritte smiles broadly enough for both of them in this small space.


Ygritte feels a foalish giddy blossoming under her skin, a feeling she had thought was lost ages ago, and yet it has returned. She feels grateful for the pickles of excitement and hopes she isn't the one scaring him. His energy is calm, more reserved, and Ygritte attempted to quell some of her own spark as it might be perceived oddly. "Afraid? How could anyone be afraid?" Her tone scoffs ever so slightly as she still smiles. "Just don't make me your next meal, my dear wendigo." Her tone is playful and light, with a gentle edge of teasing. Ygritte had known horrors of Beqanna, the carnal abominations that crept from the earth when the ground split open and birthed monstrosities, but that was when she was a queen still, when she had to gulp down a chalice of tears under a blistered sky...but that was long ago. She was the same mare now, albeit an eye, as she was then, just without the weight of expectation. "I'm Ygritte and I'm pleased to meet you, Mutiny."


The mare can only pause a moment before she asks, "Can I see your scary face?" Ygritte is too chipper for this nonsense and suspects she may unwillingly overwhelm him and attempts to change the subject. "Sorry-", her good eye darts away and the begonias in the empty socket seem to fold and droop ever so slightly. "Do you have a home in the lands?" Subject changed successfully, she thinks.