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Barachiel was torn between dislike and adoration this time of year. It was still, but cold. It was lovely and sparkling and smelled of crisp renewal, but it was sometimes difficult to fly through, and even worse if he had to attempt to walk through it- that was a nightmare that always made the snowy season a miserable one. It weighed down his fetlocks, his mane, his wings, it mussed him and chilled him, and generally made him quite irritable. Not something he considered positive by any stretch of the imagination. Winter was dreary and gray and...

And that was only when he was in a sulk. Most of the time it was calm chill, the laughter of human foals and the smell of holly and berries and spices, the warmth of their fires and family huddling close together. Autumn and Winter was when his parents cuddled close together, eyes alight, and his family gave offerings to the Great Spirit in gratitude, and gifts to their friends and foals. Dancing, playing, song, firelight... And mussed up hair!

That was what was coming, and Barachiel both dreaded and relished it, as he always did. The stallion didn't frequently roll about in the snow anymore, or play and run, but he still loved to watch others do it. (And if he just so happen to trip and flounder a bit, who was to say that it wasn't due to a root that happened to catch one of his elegant, graceful legs and work its evil mischief. It was quite obvious that snow-covered roots were attached to trees of evil. He would disabuse no one of that notion.)

But for now he didn't need to worry about snow-covered roots. Frost-covered roots at best, or patches of wet from where the frost melted in the sun that still spilled through the clouds in splatters of warmth.

If he was prancing, it wasn't childish enthusiasm or relief from the sticky heat of late summer. It was obviously that he was just trying to keep warm. Or so Barachiel would proclaim, should anyone ask why he was allowing his neck to arch, his mane and tail to flutter behind him as he moved briskly. After all, he was hardly the sort to act like a child at play just because he was enjoying the change in weather. (For now.)

He sucked in a great lungful of air, inhaling the late autumn and releasing it with a snort. A flash of white gave him pause, and his bright eyes narrowed, zooming in on the other figure in this unfamiliar area. A female, presumably. Perhaps a native of the area? He'd never quite wandered this far in this direction. It would be a good idea to greet the stranger before she noticed him and thought him of ill intentions. But as he grew closer, something gave him pause. A flicker in his mind of something familiar, and the words caught. Instead he paused, head tilted, peering at her.

WC: 500

The mare in front of him was Memory, pure and simple, a wave of homesickness and affection, and memories of a time when he could care less about the conception that others had of him. Shimmering hide, delicate rainbow hues to her name and the tips of her wings, stars, and lovely... antlers? He knew her, didn't he? Purple eyes blinked slowly, and he scrambled desperately to rebalance the certainty that this mare was someone who he knew, with the fact that no, he didn't know her at all, did he? She looked so familiar though, and it was going to certainly drive him mad if he was unable to come to a solution to the puzzle.

She moved with grace and delicacy, her smile warm and loaded with no expectation. Her voice was as delicate as the tilt of her head and the curve of her cerynei antlers, and unfamiliar to him. Though, perhaps, it hadn't been once? “Greetings,” he returned, gracing her with a toss of his vibrant mane. Stretching his wings briefly, he let them return to his side, settling naturally and comfortably. “It is a wonderful day.” His ear flicked back, listening to the crisp crunch of her measured steps. Ethereal. Surely this had to be a careful affectation! But she pulled it off so naturally, while he himself... well. Barachiel had never bothered with attempting to affect any grace more than that which he was naturally graced with.

Pleasantly she beamed at him, and he allowed himself to relax a bit more into a comfortable position. “For the time of year it is hardly chill at all in the warmth of the sun, though I must confess that I believe there is a turn in weather on the horizon.” He allowed himself to smile back at the mare, who was light to his dark, and shook his head. “Nonsense, you've shown no poor manners.” Yet her next words gave him pause. My name is Astraea. The name spilled through his ears, ringing bells of familiarity, making him more certain than he had been before that he knew the female who stood before him now. Yet she did not seem to share in his recognition, so maybe it was all a misunderstanding?

“My name is Barachiel,” he said after a moment, realizing that a lack of answer would be quickly construed as rude. And worse, should his lapse last too long and be noticed, she may realize that he felt he knew her, and he may have to confess the crime of his inability to remember. Not just a crime, but a shame! Perhaps with further conversation the memory would jiggle loose? (So caught was he in his own ruminations, he didn't notice her own scrutiny.) “It is a pleasure to see you, Astraea.” Not meet. He was certain he had met her before!

At her inquiry, his face fell. “I am very sorry. I am not a local to this area. I spend much of my time moving from place to place. I've a habit of wandering from place to place, and this is a direction I've not gone in before. I can do my best to assist, but I can make no guarantees. Is there someplace you are looking for?”

((WC: 547))

Astraea. The way she spoke was wrong, but the way she looked, and the way she stood! Even the way that the mare seemed to smile. All of these things brought to mind a form much smaller than now. Such as when he, himself, was smaller. A form slightly plumper with foal-fat, and the whisper of breeze. Yet as soon as he tried to focus, the similarity was gone in a flicker. It was an incredibly irritating circumstance, the more it lay on his mind. Luckily, the stallion would have (potentially) an entire day ahead to contemplate the whispers of memory, and maybe even slide in a question or two to help him evaluate the situation and try to find a solution for the familiarity she inspired in him.

Following the lady's example, Barachiel raised his eyes to the sky in consideration, not looking directly at the sun. “While I appreciate the chill, after a short time I do quite miss the brighter, longer days. I spend most my winters holed up in as warm a place I can find, with as much company as I can handle.” Or rather, as much company as could handle him. Barachiel knew that not everyone could deal with his level of excellence and expectation. It was just a fact that his level of grace and elegance wasn't something that everyone could deal with. Or could, as he had been told, deal with his ‘insufferable smugness and superiority complex.’ He disagreed with that rather frank and slightly underwhelming assessment of him, but what was a stallion to do?

Apparently, a stallion was to try and assist a lady. Because that was the action that a gentleman would take, and Barachiel intended to make every plausible effort to appear as distinguished and/or chivalrous as he possibly could. Or at least mannerly. (Appearances mattered!) “Well then, fellow wanderer, fortune has indeed struck.” he punctuated his words with a small, amused laugh, and an exaggeratedly playful bow over his foreleg. He didn't want to come across too playful, it might be mistaken as flirting, and that would be far too forward for what the situation allowed. “I suppose we can be out of our element together.” Rising out of his bow, Barachiel turned his mind to behaving in a manner a bit more appropriate to the situation.

Wandering was something that he could manage. He quite liked wandering! And listening to the travels of someone else was always enjoyable. It could give him ideas for where to go next, or tell him what places to avoid. And it would be easier to share such stories on the ground, so when the mare seemed disinclined to take to wing, specifically inviting him to walk, he didn't protest. It was a quick look to determine the directions which they had come from, and then he turned to a third direction. “A walk sounds fantastic,” he agreed. “Would you like to tell the first story, or should I? I'm not much of a storyteller myself, but I would certainly give it a try!”