This time she wears a simpler guise, one created from her imagination rather than childhood stories. There are some similarities, of course – she is still small and still grey. But her coat is littered with dapples now, and there are no tobiano patches or bloody shoulders. She looks like those ponies she had visited while in Wales, incapable of complete originality, it seems. Her eyes are still dark, set in long-lashed eyes that look out at the Chamber with open curiosity.
This time she stands at the border, so still that even her bracelets do not jangle. She won’t risk being caught trespassing again – her single encounter has left her with a somewhat more healthy respect of borders. The respect is temporary, of course, nothing so sensible will stay with the waif-like mare for long.
Walter’s ties to the Chamber are as much an incentive to come here as her own. There are probably ten thousand horses in Beqanna who could claim a grandmother that ruled the Chamber at some point or another. Djinni is not unique in that regard (she’s have better luck joining the exclusive league whose parents co-ruled a kingdom simultaneously. It is not her birth-land that she hails from today though. She has not been to the desert in months. Decades? A half-century? Time is so difficult to grasp. Djinni smells of the meadow, and of lands outside Beqanna, and perhaps a bit like the sun. She remembers heat at least, and brightness so extreme she say nothing else for days.
She is not yet sure what she wants here. A home perhaps, but she is not yet certain. Like Walter said, the Chamber has a way of calling. She has never stepped hoof in the heart of the Chamber, but she hears the slow creak of wind-tossed pines in something that is not entirely her ears.