for aranea;

[burnt]

burnt.

There is no God and we are his prophets.
Burnt knows more about the sky than she does the land below it.

She flies as much as possible, sidling up to the sides of storms that are thick with thunder and rife with rain; her preference is for chaos, and a storm was chaos in the sky, so she kept close to mountaintops and forests.

Her mind dips and delves into the minds of others as she flies above them, her shadow spanning the breadth of the land and the horses that dapple it in a myriad of hues both common and not. There is a black roan mare that thinks of time, nothingness, and a lake. It unfurls something in Burnt - a spark of memory and conception, her own, of course. The something ribbons out in her, long and plain and familiar, and she circles in closer to get a look at the mare that stares at the meadow, the look of her is haunted, and Burnt thinks that she must know this place but has found it strange and lacking. She cannot blame her; at times, it is, but Burnt spends too much time aloft to be afoot and troubled by the things that happen on the ground.

Her hooves touch the earth in a graceful landing; she tucks her wings in neatly against her sides, but they still smoke, still trail ember and ash from betwixt the pale snowy owl feathers. Her skin burns where the smoldering feathers touch but she is used to these small hurts by now. Burnt turns her storm-gray eyes to the black roan mare, reaching out telepathically to land on the mare’s mind with a touch that is airy and unfamiliar. She could plunge right in and rifle through thoughts and remembrances, but she holds off - it is sweeter that way, to wait. Ever so gently, she exhales a thought like a sigh in the roan’s mind, “Hello.”

[Aranea]

You only see what your eyes want to see You're frozen when your heart's not open the shadow is not surprised when her silence is broken. nor is she surprised when it is broken by a winged horse. beqanna was home to the strange and unusual - her mother had been one, and aranea could be called one, too. though her uniqueness was not as obvious as that of the creature before her. the wings seemed as if they had been set ablaze and for a long moment they were the only things to hold her attention. it was not until the words touched her mind that her gaze would shift to the face of the one who had joined her. once again she was not surprised - she had learned much of telepathy in her years here prior - but instead almost relieved you can hear me, then? aranea directed her thoughts towards the mare and waited patiently for an answer. some could project but not read, though she sensed that that was not the case here. and finally she would be able to have a true conversation and perhaps learn some about the world she had returned to. aranea the fire-eyed shadow of covet and sage

[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.

[Aranea]

You only see what your eyes want to see You're frozen when your heart's not open there is the slightest prickle - a niggle at the back of her mind - that told her she was not alone in her thoughts. it was not a deep intrusion (for surely she would feel more exposed if it was?) but it was enough. aranea exhaled with a sound similar to displeasure for though she welcomed the company she did not wish to feel naked in the presence of one who was a stranger. i have known others like you. telepaths, magicians, mind-readers - i am familiar with this form of communication. it had been her only means of doing so for many years. the later question was a little more tricky and she found her darkened lips to purse ever so slightly. she considered the question, weighed it, and then found the words to reply. i cannot say. many years. i did not count them. they had no meaning, those years. they were empty and isolated and though she found contentment with her own company it was not enough to be meaningful. i am aranea, by the way. in case it mattered. aranea the fire-eyed shadow of covet and sage

@[Burnt]