It is cold, but she is a thing made for winter. Perhaps not as frigid as some, but she is certainly designed more for the cold than she is for the heat. Born with skin that glistened with a coating of frost, and a heart that some might argue is carved from ice, it is no wonder she much prefers the snowdrifts to the golden warmth of summer.
She did not feel the bite of the cold the way some might; not when the winds cut through the trees like a knife as she wandered the wooded path, and not when snow began to gather over the ridges of her back and hips.
Today, she bore colors in tribute to the season. Her coat is a stark white, glittering faintly when the sunlight catches it due to the frost that she never shakes. Scattered across her in a shimmering silver are small markings reminiscent of snowflakes, accompanied by a delicate lacing of swirling lines. Her eyes remain the same vibrant blue they usually are, the contrast against all of her white nearly mirroring the bright blue of the sky against the snow-covered world below it.
Those overbright eyes scan the riverbank from the skeletal trees she winds herself through, her footsteps hushed by the blanket of snow. She watched as the granite-gray of the water carves its way through the snow, and while to some the entire scenery might have appeared dreary and dull—the dark brown of the naked trees, the white snow, and the gray of the water and the stones that line the bank—to her there is something oddly peaceful about it.
She enjoys the quiet that comes in being somewhere that nowhere else wants to be.
Until a movement flickers at the corner of her vision, and she realizes she is not alone.
Angling her head, she fixes her sharp blue gaze on a pale stallion, and for a moment she almost thinks of caving to the ember of irritation that lit inside of her chest at having her serenity interrupted. But then she looks at him again, closer this time; at the hard but handsome angles of his face, at the feathered wings that erupt from his back, and she decides that perhaps company wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
She wasn’t particularly one for small talk, but she was always willing to see where something might lead.
Moving toward him with sure but casual steps, she emerges from the shifting shadows of the treeline and into the sun, the frost her skin shimmering just faintly in the light. She says nothing to him as she slips by close enough that he would be forced to take notice of her, and she lowers her head to drink the cold water that flows at their feet in silence.
She did not feel the bite of the cold the way some might; not when the winds cut through the trees like a knife as she wandered the wooded path, and not when snow began to gather over the ridges of her back and hips.
Today, she bore colors in tribute to the season. Her coat is a stark white, glittering faintly when the sunlight catches it due to the frost that she never shakes. Scattered across her in a shimmering silver are small markings reminiscent of snowflakes, accompanied by a delicate lacing of swirling lines. Her eyes remain the same vibrant blue they usually are, the contrast against all of her white nearly mirroring the bright blue of the sky against the snow-covered world below it.
Those overbright eyes scan the riverbank from the skeletal trees she winds herself through, her footsteps hushed by the blanket of snow. She watched as the granite-gray of the water carves its way through the snow, and while to some the entire scenery might have appeared dreary and dull—the dark brown of the naked trees, the white snow, and the gray of the water and the stones that line the bank—to her there is something oddly peaceful about it.
She enjoys the quiet that comes in being somewhere that nowhere else wants to be.
Until a movement flickers at the corner of her vision, and she realizes she is not alone.
Angling her head, she fixes her sharp blue gaze on a pale stallion, and for a moment she almost thinks of caving to the ember of irritation that lit inside of her chest at having her serenity interrupted. But then she looks at him again, closer this time; at the hard but handsome angles of his face, at the feathered wings that erupt from his back, and she decides that perhaps company wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
She wasn’t particularly one for small talk, but she was always willing to see where something might lead.
Moving toward him with sure but casual steps, she emerges from the shifting shadows of the treeline and into the sun, the frost her skin shimmering just faintly in the light. She says nothing to him as she slips by close enough that he would be forced to take notice of her, and she lowers her head to drink the cold water that flows at their feet in silence.
S T A R G A Z E
