welcome home

Eira... Beneath the cover of his sleek, bronze wing, Eira pressed her cold, wet frame closer to the warmth radiating from his flesh. She was relieved, for the journey had been long and weariness nagged at her desire to stay present. Dark, ocean blue eyes ventured upwards, colliding with his friendly, stormy gaze before fluttering on to inspect further, the group of horses which were gathered. The tall creature which had emerged from the glowing fissure of The Pinnacle stood present, and thoughtfully, the anorexic orphan admired her; though she spoke and the note of her voice was remarkably soothing, Eira scarcely understood the nature of the announcement which seemed to inspire Hope’s audience, nor the concept of a herd as they further discussed it. As she listened, focus slowly growing vague, memories of her family began to infiltrate her mind. It had been raining all day and all night. Eira thought it would never end. Cirrus had been absent for a good part of the morning, because apparently the murky-green weeds which had washed in from the sea were less than palatable - the infant couldn’t know. Beneath the watchful eye of Kirrotu, the roan twins (though while wet Indra looked silver), strolled south down the beach and when they found the sheer cliff face at the end, they about faced ad began the slog back. “…’member the story about the horses of the desert, Eira?” her brother asked along the way. The sleek, flourishing filly nodded with a smile. Stories about grammpa Ázzuen, were very much her favourite; to further feed her enthusiasm and fascination about their family’s past, Cirrus given Indra the spear which had slain their great-gramma. “…well, I’m gunna be a king like Kri of the Tuuli. ’N you’re gunna be the queen.” Eria giggled softly. “Kri's not a boy, silly!” There was a rustle of movement as Vynter arrived beside Roscorro also, and extended his soggy lips in fond greeting. As the waif met his touch upon her shoulder with the velvety ball of her nose, she became aware of others moving around them. The white mare with the wings behind her ears was vanishing through the rain, and so too were others leaving the group. Curious eyes ascended to explore each expression on the horses remaining; she wasn’t certain what was happening. "I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter."

- Pablo Neruda, Winter Garden