Hesitation does not become her. It might have in her former existence but now it paints a garish look on her face that seems at odds with the still-young features out of which eyes older than the dirt at her feet peer out of. So then, why does she hesitate to take one more step further than the grave she used to occupy? She blames it on some residual reluctance to leave the earthen crypt that has housed her bones for so long. Or perhaps a shard of such has been left behind and she must figure out how to retrieve it?
Moselle laughs; the sound is soft and delicate, like the chime of a small handbell or the chirp of some adored songbird. Silliness! She could not stand as thus - fleshed and fevered - if a single bone had been left behind. The mere idea was preposterous! Perhaps it had to do with the tears and blood spilled here, and that she might not be more than a residual haunt that has come back. No, that’s not it either. She is too real and the thick red meat throbs in her breast once more for this to be a shade of a dream.
The dirt slithers at her feet, rises up to curl around her fetlocks and she peers down at it. She is unconscious of having urged it to move - the magic does that, mutating into something smaller as she crossed over. Moselle has not thought to find someone to ask about how all this is possible, and perhaps doesn’t care. It seems like such a minor detail now that she is back and breathing again. Small miracle, that. If she is grateful, it also doesn’t show because she is too much a queen of old to bother with gratitude.
She looks up, amber-eyed and suspicious because she does not recognize him. Recognition, ha! Who is there left to remember? She is still as much of a ghost as he feels for all that she can feel organs working and blood rushing through her extremities. He seems to recognize that she was a dead thing moments ago but makes no comment about it. Just as she makes no comment on how he is an undead thing, mutant and impossible but she knows better - Beqanna likes to make the possible impossible and the impossible possible.
Moselle should cease to be surprised but she is not, even as the truth of their unique situation hits her full force. She is alive and he is not, though he is not a true ghost in that sense because he stands there, fleshed before her but then she has a thought - is his skin cold? Would she find a pulse in him if her lips were to explore all that lovely skin the color of despair? Oh Moselle! These are thoughts never had before despite the fact that she holds the shape of a yearling but the eyes of a much older mare.
He refuses to meet her gaze, or it might not be so much as a refusal but because the dirt dancing around her lower legs is a distraction. She bids it to settle and small corpse plants bloom instead, pale and waxen. There, she decides, much better and she smiles. “Greetings Kensley, I am…” oh dear! She was about to introduce herself as queen but she hasn’t been that in a long time. It is refreshing to finish on a note of freedom that spills out of her in a rush, “Moselle.” Queen she is no longer, but old manners and queenly decorum is hard to forget.
Curious, ever her downfall, she reaches out to him to confirm if he is hot as a horse should be or as cold as a corpse looks.
@[kensley] ❤️