[open] perhaps it was but a fever dream

[Famkee]

Familiarity became a darkness that loomed, reminding her that perhaps she really was going in circles. The scent of pine, summers gift of growth, and really, just every trunk looked the same locking her in a sense of confusion. In the forests throes of winter, Famkee thinks the woods haven't changed much since she'd first arrived, somehow finding her way back to the endless swallows of timber. Only this time, Famkee enjoys the weather, taking a deep inhale to absorb the heat into her lungs. Slow, calculated steps carry her through the woodland, despite living inside her past, she manages to keep herself divided, escape the torment long enough to at least stay alert. Destruction hung stagnant in the air, despite the lands ability to heal, to mask the magic that had poisoned the soil, Famkee is brought back to the familiarity of it all. Suffering, rebuilding, pain, mending, numbness. A cycle she's become intimate with. 

Her golden pelt nearly makes her invisible inside the forest, shadowed with darker extremities blending her into the fallen leaves. She uses this to her advantage in the summer months, when the greenery and her brother sun cast through the canopy to camouflage. In the winter she sticks out like a sore thumb, so now she can move a bit more comfortably through the brush. Her horn was always a hindrance with low hanging branches, the lengthy bone jutting from her forehead would only pull the stretchy limbs and smack them to land with a whip on her skin. With this, she keeps her nose low, ears vigilant in their forwardness. The mare is stocky, muscled and capable, she isn't worried who she'll find, what she is worried about is the possibility of it. Being a socialite was never her strong suit, battle, the ancestral drums of war even now whispered her name on the warm breeze. Once a soldier, always a soldier. It's not like she could forget. 

She hears his footsteps before she actually sees him, peering her head round the foliage to locate the sound. He stands exploratory like her, dappled like her, though unlike her, he seemed a bit more careless in his ability to be found. He's grey like a stormy morning, colors more fit for the cold she thinks, drab. She's uninterested, enough to walk away but upon not seeing a wing adorned on the side that's facing her, she's sees another shuffled onto the opposing side, it's white feathers stark against his foggier coat. Only one? that's a first. This does intrigue her enough to linger, she tries to remain out of sight to ponder the cause. Perhaps an injury? Wouldn't the appendage grow back? Her horn has been severed several times only to grow back to its lethal points. She'd been around winged equines, but never one with a missing pinion. Striving to keep herself elusive, her curiosity never fails to betray her, as her weight against one of the pines frees a pair of cones to fall sharply on her spine, clattering to the forests floor. She freezes on impact, maybe the stud wouldn't even notice with how oafishly loud he scouts. She doesn't say a word, fervent golden eyes trained on him. 

if my heart is in your hands will i die

Famkee

@Buonarroti Hope u don't mind me popping in, she needs some more interactions