[open] then sang to the sea for feelings deep blue // any

[Celina]

The sound of the river is soothing, and Celina is slow to wake. She rests beneath an overhang in the riverbank, shielded by earth overhead and to one side and running water to the other. The navy haired mare is drawn to water, a fondness that she never suspects might be primitive instinct. A sip of water invigorates her, and the fine silver scales of her mouth grow icy in the spring snow melt waters. Celina snorts, tossing her head in surprise, but lets the water run between the teeth of her wide mouth, the cold water shocking the last remnants of sleep from her mind as it splashes against her scaled chest. She cannot afford the luxury of a slow wakeup. Instead of savoring it, Celina does away with what’s left of last night’s meal, the back half of a brown trout that had been just a little slower than the others. Wading into the ankle deep water, the winged creature ducks beneath the overhang and climbs the steep river bank. She is surefooted and agile, reaching the more well-travelled path along the water without difficulty. There, on smooth earth, she stumbles. Somewhere ahead is blood. It lasts but a single breath, and though Celina raises her head in an effort to find the source, it is gone as quickly as it came. These days she cannot be too careful. She steps off the path, continuing as she had been until a grassy patch comes into sight. There a pegasus grazes. He is as golden as the pampas grasses, with a pale face that reminds her of Neverwhere. He is the source of the blood smell, she is sure of it. Yet he moves with ease, no sign of injury. Had he been the aggressor, then? The possibility intrigues her, and she steps out into the clearing. In the dim light, the yellow green glow of her fireflies shine prettily, resting in a ring around her neck, a few floating about her head. The face they illuminate is decidedly not pretty, not with those teeth and the intent look in her long-lashed eyes. The iridescence of her coat is barely visible, though it shimmers as she continues to move forward, her head tilted at a curious angle. She doesn’t say anything, just moves ever nearer, circling him to get a better look. There’s a spot on his chest, but she’s never seen a wound like it. It is not from hoof or tooth or claw. Too neat for dragon fire. A puzzle. Celina does not like puzzles. She growls thoughtfully, low in her throat, and the sound emerges as a soft hiss between the teeth that protrude from her wide mouth. “Who are you?” She asks, the words slurred. In the time since her mother’s departure, Celina has abandoned efforts to ‘speak clearly’. She rarely speaks at all, in truth, but she knows that she can still be understood. Most of the time. @[Rhaegor] celina i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type