She does not often leave her cave, but today is an exception.
Something had pulled her from the shadowy depths, and the rose gold mare now blinks bleary green eyes at the brightness of the sun on the snow. A moment ago Djinni had stood at the sandy mouth of her northern cavern, and the next she is here, in the Field. All arround her there is a soft shimmer – the finest grains of impossibly golden sand – but then it is gone, leaving her nothing but a winged pink mare standing along in the snowy meadow.
She is not alone, Djinni finds – ahead of her is a bruised and bleeding mare.
Is this what had drawn her out today? A frown wrinkles the primitive cobwebbing of the mare’s forehead while her delicate ears prick forward curiously. She isn’t sure if the mare has seen her, so she calls out a gentle: “Hey!” from where she stands fetlock deep in the cold snow. When she has caught the mare’s attention, she speaks again, more gently now.
“Do you need help?” The answer would seem obvious, but Djinni has grown cautious in the last decade. The misappropriation of magic has become less common with time, and the lightly-built mare is no longer given to blatantly flaunting her abilities. There is concern in her sandy voice, oddly rough for a creature built on such delicate lines, and her sea-green eyes flick across the cuts and bruises that litter the piebald mare in front of her.