isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
She follows the darkness, even in the light of day. She is drawn to the shadows because it reminds her of sleeping against the velvet of some forgotten galaxy, she likes it because she can see the way she glows against the dark just the way a star in the endless black of night would. It makes the captive star inside of her soul settle, helps it to feel not so out of place. The dark was the closest to home that she would ever be again, she thinks, and while it is a thought that perplexes her – because she still does not fully understand how she came to be here, does not understand how or why she was reborn inside this strange, equine form, and does not understand why she cannot go back – it’s not something she thinks about overly much.
She will continue to toy with the starlight every night, she will keep pulling the strings that she can and perfecting the art of it, all the while knowing this is the closest she will ever be again.
He is there when she presses further into the forest of shadow and tree, but she is not alarmed to see him. Her face remains impassive, the sharp yet elegant angles softened somewhat by the faint glow that radiates from every part of her. Her eyes, an aubergine so dark it ventures on the end of black, have a strange depthless feel to them when they meet the red of his, and she does not seem to register nor care that he is canine and not equine. She does not say anything at first, until her gaze drifts over the small flames above his back, and she asks him in a voice so clear that the peculiar emptiness is not immediately apparent, “Do you make the fire yourself?”
@[Firen]