there is never a day that goes by; spink pony

[Reagan]

so you want to play with magic?
you should know what you're falling for.

The shadow he casts is a great one, and her body tingles with even the presence of him. Here in the bowels of the darkest parts of Beqanna’s forests were her domain, and she does not get many visitors here. Her home, such that it was, had diminished greatly. Her presence here, once great and glorious, was filtered down to a very weak sense of power that she was only just now re-learning to control. Upon her body, the scars that rippled down her sides—a final gift from a man who was so buried in his own anger and hate that he could not see love on the end of his own nose. Her eyes, she has turned them into a haunting purple grey color that sticks out against the dark, and from her place in the brush, she can smell him coming. And his bitterness…

His immortality.

There were not many that were as old as they were anymore. The ones who remember the way life was…before. To live life and have no end goal, allowing the days to grow restless and tedious—it was a boredom she knew well. And while she had gone to outlive her children, and grandchildren, she herself remained. Her life force drove onward like a storm—and she was never-changing.

The one time she had deigned to try, she had earned herself these scars.

A hard smirk set upon her face, and she stepped forward, allowing him to hear the cracking of the branches under her hooves. A teal green woman dip-dyed into a fuschia ombre, with flashes of silver streaking her hair. Gone were the days of austerity. She may not enjoy a life living among them just yet, but she cannot say much for what happens when they come venturing into her forests.

She sways passed him as she makes her entrance known, ears erect, purposeful. Her movements are fluid, and well-practiced. She notices his lack of attention to detail. Would she catch him off balance? Her voice is melodious as she speaks to him, the barest hint of a secret smile playing on her lips… the rest of her face, cool. Serene.

Perfect.

“Such thoughts you have. Fingers that stretch far in your history. What is so serious that it brings you here? Or have you gotten lost in your reverie?” A breathy laugh, small, before the mask is once more set in place—the fuschia slowly creeping up her body, overtaking the teal. “No one comes to this part of the forest. The children claim it is haunted.”

A beat of silence. Her eyes roll over his body before settling on his face. She likes what she sees.

“I am Reagan.”

Reagan

I had to use my special rock music to reply to this