08-16-2016, 04:52 PM
burnt.
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.”