Kitra was far, too far for any kind of urgency on her part (when her mother hadn’t even bothered to actually send for her) when the call came. Kitra had moved past her parent’s kingdom, a distant alcove faraway, filled with lust and inhibitions - sweet little pleasures that had nothing to do with responsibility. Once her father had passed and her mother had essentially given the crown to those two mares, ambition had shattered into little fragments that Kitra had never cared to put back together. She hadn’t blamed her mother for that choice, of giving up so easily to the gods, how could she? Oh how the sorrow had shadowed her mother’s beautiful face for so long after the Nightwalker had gone. In a grip of selfishness much like him, she had left. Her heart needed to feel the abandon of having no name in a place where her past could be all lies passed between her lips of strangers, if she so pleased. The freeness of love, the intense depth that desire could take you to - now that was living. And she hadn’t looked back in a long, long time.
Kitra was never quite sure if it was her stroke of sweet luck in the gene lottery or more the workings of her mother, but she was svelte and lean where her brothers were bulky and hard-muscled. An oil black mare with long legs, a petite neck and face that is bathed in gold. A gold that could not luster more brightly than if a sheet of gold metal had been painted across her. She is pitch black everywhere but her dished face and gold stockings that rise high up to her lean forelegs. Her coat was a perfect fusion of her parents, an unpleasant realization that crosses her mind as she makes her way to her birthplace. The once-princess had been torn by her father’s murder, she had been nothing less than a coddled princess beneath his breadth and his absence opened a void she had since craved to fill.
The black and gold mare is covered in an undulating sheen when she crests the hill of the highest dune, her nostrils quivering wildly at the wild suggestion of what the wind carried. Gaza, Kreios were there as well as a few others who elicited no familiarity to her but it was one scent in particular that quelled her heart and pushed her faster through the sands of her childhood.
There, beneath the sprawling impossible oak, was her father. In a better form than she had known him to be in before his death even – not a hint of grey was there to lighten his nose as she had so fondly remembered it being. Kitra and her brothers, her twins, had come late in the king’s life but they had been especially indulged by him for that reason too. “Father!” Kitra squeals a child's squeal, shouldering past a purple colt that had teleported from her father’s side almost directly in front of her rapid frame as she moved towards the oak and the king. When she lopes past Kreios and Gaza, she gives them both small nips as she laughs out-loud, “how?” She asks, dipping a gold-blazoned face into the crook of his wing, “nevermind that,” she says, “thank the gods!” She tilts her head back, closing her eyes before turning to her siblings, “and my brothers too?” Another laugh, musical and light despite the heaviness that had just lingered in the air here, bursts past her black lips. “You must be Etro,” she indicates with a toss of her face, “hello sister,” she says as she bridges the gap of space between them. She had of course heard of her younger sister’s abilities but Kitra had no gifts besides the lineage in her blood, there was no reason for her to hesitate. She extends a golden nose out to her sister, “a meeting long overdue," she says, turning to the rest of them, "all of us."