[private] it's all gone with the wind

[Pteron]

and since you’re the only one that matters,----------------
----------------tell me: who do i run to?

Pteron watches her response with interest, thinking that Lilliana does not seem unpleasantly surprised by the realization that he and Aquaria share children. He knows that Aquaria thinks well of this red mare, and perhaps cares what she thinks about such things, so he is pleased by this realization. At the same time, finding that Aquaria had not spoken of him at all brings with it a strange sort of heaviness that settles just behind his heart. They’d said they would start over, he reminds himself. The past is unchangeable, but the future is not. 

Lilliana speaks of Aquaria’s participation in the Alliance, and Pteron glances out at the water. He’s not spoken with the nereid of her loss, though he knows from Gale how she had faired. He worries he might slip up, and mention that he is grateful she had been home when the darkness had come, so he avoids the topic. Avoids it even now, except for a small nod of understanding.

Nashua has seen his mother since their encounter, Pteron learns, and his brother as well. Yanhua, he thinks, a blurry image (shared from eyes that shared from eyes that saw it true) rising in his mind of a capric golden face. Or another brother, like the one down at the beach? “I would like to,” he answers truthfully. “Does he live in Taiga still, or on the Isle with Nashua?”

The piebald stallion knows that there had been happenings in the east, strange rumblings in the earth, and flashes of magic and shadow that ran cold fingers of fear down the spines even of the most hardened of warriors. Pteron shakes his blue-green mane as one does just that, shivering in the cool winter wind. He fluffs the feathers of his wings about his chest and barrel, feeling the familiar brush of his pinfeathers where they meet behind his trailing mane. The stallion had grown accustomed to the warmth of his home, and it’s been some time since he was so continuously physically uncomfortable. It’s not harmful (nothing is with his familial healing) but he doesn’t enjoy the way the wind whips across the exposed dampness of his neck, wicking the moisture aware and leaving him even colder.

“Never. I’ve not even heard stories of anything like this.” He answers, turning his head up so that he might better look at the faint ring of light far overhead.

@[lilliana]

-- pteron --