A storm had passed over in the late afternoon, and the trees around the small mare still drip down a steady trickle of water, even though the storm clouds themselves have moved east. Dusk is a pretty time in Sylva, but Djinni does not have eyes for the soft blues and purples of the land. Instead, she watches the sea.
There the sun burns red, reflected in the rippling saltwater below like a flame on the horizon.
Her dark eyes trace the line that separates sea from sky from south to north. Up there is Nerine, and she wonders if Nayl is watching the same sunset. Djinni has not seen the iron queen in nearly a year; she wonders how she is faring. The most recent news she has heard of her was her patronage of Hyaline, that little lake in the mountains. Courtesy dictates she visit her sister-kingdom, she supposes, and with a quiet sigh, Djinni vanishes from Sylva and appears at the edge of Hyaline.
Most of the valley that spreads below her is filled with shadow, but the rim of the green bowl is stilled streak with sunlight. It there that she remains, lingering in the no-man’s land before Hyaline begins.
The small mare is easy to spot even in the encroaching darkness. She is as pale as snow, her pristine coat almost seeming to absorb and project what little light there is. There are a handful of golden streaks in her mane and tail, which accentuate the three-tined pair of golden antlers that rest between her jeweled ears. Above each of her pitch-black hooves are golden anklets, accentuating her slim ankles and drawing attention to her equally slender build. That is the only true part of herself that she wears this evening, her small stature and naturally immaculate good looks.
There is a faintly amused smile on her pale lips as she turns expectant violet eyes on the horse that appears, the humor just enough to make her recognizable as a living creature and not a work of art – carved and gilted marble.