isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
He comments on her name, and it is similar to what the little star girl had told her. Truthfully Islas had never noticed – she didn’t notice much. Having a name at all had been so strange and foreign to her that she had not put much thought into why she was given the name that she was. She learned some things as she grew older, though, as this peculiar mortal body aged and changed. “My mother has a warped sense of humor, sometimes,” she says, though she hardly understands the concept of humor. She grasps it enough to recognize her mother was maybe a little abnormal. “She said my father would get it.”
A pause, before she considers that perhaps she should acknowledge the actual question. “But yes, I do have eyes.”
“This land is strange,” she follows the shift in topic seamlessly, taking a moment to glance at their surroundings -- the trees, the birds that flutter from limb to limb, the watery sunlight that strains through the clouds. “I haven’t really figured out the magic of it yet.” She regards him carefully, admiring the faint undertone of anger in his voice; she doesn’t know why anger is one of her favorite emotions to witness. Maybe because it can blossom from so many different roots, though so many associated it with cruelty. Islas had learned, through watching, the anger seemed to be an outlet instead for trapped passion. “I have never met anyone beside you that is trapped in the same way I am. I have met others that harness powers similar to mine, in that they can control the starlight, but they were never stars.”
He mentions the mountain, and she tilts her shapely head. “I’ve heard of it,” she begins, combing through what few facts she had accumulated about what seemed to be the magical centerpiece of this place, “but I’ve never been. If I have learned anything about Beqanna, though, is that it will not give you anything for free. Not even something that is rightfully yours.”
