 There’s a shadow of focus on the younger girl’s face, and Celina waits. Some things are harder than others, and she’s no idea how difficult making lights might be. Her fireflies make their own light; she need only direct them where to fly with the least-focused of thoughts.
Celina knows the struggle of controlling magics when young, and she supposes she should be grateful that the girl in front of her seems to have a solid grasp on her gift. The same was not true for Celina growing up, and nor was it so for her siblings. Maybe fear of the monsters elicits better control, she thinks. Are the monsters frightening to those who live here though, she wonders? Is the appearance of glowing girl in front of her a façade? Mistrust of both emotion and her vision come naturally to the scaled creature, but her flaring nostrils catch nothing, and the soft steps of the filly sound just like a filly’s steps should. (Not that Celina has ever heard a monster walking, but surely she would know if she did).
The thought of monsters disappears as the rainbow appears. A thousand little bits of light, every color she could name and even more that she cannot. Celina smiles, thrilled by the dozen shades of orange glowing just to her left. At them she smiles fondly, and only then seems to realize that these lights make her shadow-skulking a wasted effort, for now she stands in a veritable spotlight.
“Now everyone will know we are here,” she says dryly, though her tone of voice does not quite match the expression on her face. She is truthfully delighted by the rainbow of lights. To see it nearly anywhere else would be a marvel. Yet now, illuminated by aan eye-catching, prismatic glow while she stands at the edge of the monster’s lair, the glory of the spectacle is naturally dulled. “Could you turn them off, please?” She does not sound concerned (be prepared for everything, she hears her father’s voice saying, and you will never be surprised), only curious.
“Have you seen a yellow stallion?” She asks, “with a long white mane and stripe like…” Celina twists her head over her shoulder and sees that: yes, her iridescent stripes are just visible enough through the dust of her coat “stripes like mine, but blue?” That he can change himself Celina does not mention. He returned to the shape she knew when she was with him, and so she assumes that he wears it most often. “His name is Wolfbane,” she tells the white filly. “and I am Celina.”
celina
i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type
make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type
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@[Beyza]
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