Psychology is a monster that it is best that Seraphina not explore. Perhaps best for Fart as well. Too many losses, too many mistakes. But that is the price of immortality, and no one is exempt from this toll. She has not experienced the pain and suffering, the anguish, that the stallion has been made to endure. Indeed her traits came to her rather slowly, like a gift from the soul of the jungle. But they are a constant reminder now of the life she has led, and the sisters she has forsaken. She fears the jungle now. She fears meeting those old familiar faces. She fears that the jungle’s spirit will rip her limb from limb if she dares enter her old homeland. She can be forgiving, but she can also be vicious. Seraphina knows this all too well.
So she is lost now, really. She has always had a home here until now. Topsy turvy he says. She can relate. She nods absentmindedly. But the stallion’s reaction to the conversation can only be described as terrified and she can’t help but notice. She understands fear, but nothing akin to what causes the knees to tremble and the voice to shake. In the past she had detested fear. She would have turned up her nose to such displays. But now she desires to reach out and touch him, to reassure him. Before she can decide one way or the other he is explaining fairies. The terror, the pain all mingled with adoration. The hawk eyes narrow with confusion. “Grumble?” She says softly, more to herself than to her companion. There was uneasiness in her voice.
She does not further interrupt; a morbid curiosity overwhelms her. What had happened to him that made him act this way? What could such a timid and scarred creature possibly hide within him that could harm her? But he was so serious, she did not dare go against his wishes. She stood planted in her spot, perfectly still while he lowered his head and exhaled, a dangerous green spilling from his nostrils onto the clover beneath him. The green gas seemed to suck the green from the clover and then curled slowly upwards, dissipating as it climbed.
Her golden eyes are focused, narrow. She watches this unfold, her body rigid. She has never seen the likes of this magic. The warrior in her tenses, her fight or flight reflex still strong. Slowly, deliberately, she looks at him, all skinny and green and deformed. Her gaze softens and she smiles. What a chance of fate that this deadly magic was instilled in one so utterly against using it for his own personal gain. What good fortune that the tortured soul had a method of protecting himself from those who wished to harm him. Surely she had never met anyone like this before.
After a moment she feels her legs move beneath her of their own accord. She is just as surprised as he undoubtedly will be that she is suddenly beside him. Her nose against the crest where a mane should be, gentle touch. She backs up a little to meet his gaze, eyes a golden glow, a smile warming them further. “Sure.”
Seraphina