Nyxa
These useless fucking wings!
It exasperates her to no end how utterly senseless the gods were to gift her with such taxing things like wings made entirely of water. Now, in the rush of Winter, they’ve frozen solid and ache with immobile cramps from being crossed over her back. Nyxa can hardly concentrate on walking, much less on keeping them warm because as a solid, they’ve become weighted and alter her balance. Through the Field she stumbles, a plush body spun from the color cream and thick with fur against the bitter chill. She’s a yearling still, growing every day but not yet past the stage of awkward limbs and slender ribs.
A young thing, but determined like no other. When she passes by the similar duo - a Buckskin stallion splashed over with white, along with a young colt who’s not yet chosen one solid color - she only means to glance their way and continue on but something stops her, right in her tracks.
She contemplates, shuffles the wings on her back until they tinkle against one another as glass would, and turns to approach them with a soft smile. “Hello there, don’t mind me.” She prompts at first, choosing to slow once more as she nears them, “I was passing through, on my way home I guess … do you two have somewhere to go also? A home?” She queries with the tilt of her curious head.
Wayward daughter of Canaan and Circinae
@[Bragi]