There was a time in which Margot only felt joy.
Joy as just a wee girl in the face of demons. She knows the feeling intimately, succinctly. Joy is not a foreign feeling to her now, a woman grown; but the sensation certainly evades her in the shadows of adulthood. Mostly, Margot feels content. Never happy, never joyful, but certainly and vividly alive.
She is vibrant now. Perhaps not joyful but every inch of her appearance appears elated and angelic. Porcelain, sleek skin glittering with pastel galaxies paired with the slowly spinning moons above her head, Margot is the picture of heaven. Ethereal, she might convince herself that she is a goddess.
Beneath the hot spring sun, Margot bakes. She lays dramatically on her side in the middle of the meadow, a white beacon of glittering light. It is unusually hot for the middle of spring in Beqanna, but the mare is determined to remain on her side and enjoy the heat (and perhaps grab some strangers' concerned attention—despite her clear lack of distress).
Margot releases a melodramatic sigh and closes her eyes, prim and proper even in such an inelegant position. She convinces herself that the sun makes the day less of waste and relaxes.
@savage <3