Pleasantly quiet, with nothing but the whistle of birds in her ears and the gentle hum of insects going about their insectoid business, far from the worries of the land of the horses. It must be nice, being a fly, with glass-pane wings and shiny eyes. Once, she had caught a fly and accidentally breathed it up her nose... But that seemed a lifetime ago. She was older now, more mature. She would never do that by accident now.
She stretches her long, fuzzy white legs and shakes out her frizzy, curly mane. She was a year old now, or somewhere thereabouts (she did not know her birthday). Certainly old enough to have experienced the Old Lands, although try as she might, all she can remember is drifting ash and a lot of black, and silence (not quiet, but silence - true silence, deafening silence).
The sunshine of this World was, of course, a welcome change to the little born-from-ash angel, and so is the pleasant tittering of the birds, and of course, the little insects.
ooc: this sucks im sorry
@[Tioga]