Famous Last Stand

The journey south from Halyven was always long and unnecessarily precarious for the small, young dreamer, the stunted waif, whose tortured beginning had tethered her to the earth. She had slipped between those crumbled ivory pillars nearly three weeks prior and had chosen to deviate  from the most straightforward path to the Portal (as always she did now), to avoid the swamp-stalker who had pursued her already on more than two occasions; it was a formidable looking creature with savagely pointed tusks about its face, claws to rival the horns on Roscorro’s face and such speed that that Eira had begged for her life! Thankfully, as had been explained by one older and far wiser, that stalker and its aggressive brethren belonged much further east—it was unlucky that she’d encountered it so often. Nevertheless, Eira’s confidence had been shaken and thereafter, she’d found herself only at the mercy of black ice and wither-deep snow. Soft white breathy wreaths ascended in quick succession from her panting nostrils when at last she found herself beneath the tangles of wild vine and gnarled bough, all very prevalent around the Portal. Here I am, she told herself with a pale, satisfied smile, attempting to feed confidence through the wariness of her soul; all the while, the scrawny child-looking filly narrowing her dark eyes upon the familiar shadows which slithered and stalked through the neon lights of this, the ugly fissure between worlds. She stepped slowly, silently, blessed by the tinted metal which was fastened round her cannons, ever aware of the frosted foliage which littered the ground—somewhere, she knew, a sour-flavoured creek carved through, and Eira was certain that by now it would be ice. It was as she came upon the frozen surface that a sound touched her notice, drawing it hither, the quiet length of her unhorsed face along too. The snowman which always trailed her, a nuisance more than a companion, for it scowled awfully and hurled snowballs in miserable fashion, gathered one such missile in its sharp, stick hand, anticipating company. The sound was not a voice, certainly, instead a thud, or thump, like weight falling hard against the ground, and Eira, with furry blue ears fixed forward, began to search carefully through the undergrowth for the source. She started slightly, surprised (though perhaps the other’s presence should have been expected), when at last her wandering eyes fell upon the coloured flank of a stranger. They were collapsed—perhaps fallen—either way, she imagined, incapable of launching an inescapable attack, and so the filly crept closer, silently, nervously. “Hello?” she offered with the safety of distance still comfortable between them. The other’s face was lifted, and Eira made a specific effort to present herself in a way that was noticeable. “Are you hurt?” The question, though she truly was concerned, was an equal attempt to gauge the level of danger surrounding the situation. The little blue orphan was not at all a risk taker. The snowman threw his waiting snowball with force.

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Eira doesn't have a horn yet (ignore the picture), and she is speaking telepathically.