Welcome to Gaia! ::

The forest breathed around Aurora, slow and steady, as though it were a living thing and she merely another creature passing through its ribs. Pine needles softened her steps, damp earth cool beneath her small hooves. She had learned long ago how to move without disturbing much - how to let the land keep its silence.

Despite her stature, she was not fragile. The wind braided itself through her mane as it always did, tugging gently at the rainbow feathers that curved from her shoulders and traced her wings. Against her near-black coat, their colors caught the daylight where it filtered through the canopy, muted but unmistakable. The same was true of her horn and scales - bright, many-hued things that marked her as different, even here, even now. She did not try to hide them. There was no point. The wilderness sees all things eventually.

She paused beside a shallow stream, lowering her head to drink. Her reflection wavered in the moving water: small, dark, eyes shimmering faintly with color not borrowed from the sky or leaves. A soft glow clung to her, subtle as heat rising from stone after sunset. She had been born with it. It was not magic - just her, as natural as the way some birds gleam or certain stones catch the light.

This stretch of forest belonged to no single creature. Other Soquili passed through here - some solitary like Aurora, others in pairs or herds - and the Kawani people knew these woods far better than she ever would. Their paths were faint but present if one knew how to look: a bent branch here, a worn patch of moss there. Aurora respected those signs. The land had caretakers already.

Traveling alone had become her preference over the years. There was peace in it, a rhythm she could keep without explanation or compromise. Still, solitude did not mean emptiness. Her thoughts often wandered to her children - Moonsong with her quiet watchfulness, Eclipse with her shadowed intensity. They were grown now, walking their own paths. Sometimes they found her. Sometimes they did not. Aurora had learned to be content either way.

A breeze slipped through the trees, carrying the scent of distant rain and something else - movement, perhaps. Another presence. Aurora lifted her head, ears tilting forward, posture relaxed but attentive. This forest was shared, after all, and crossings were inevitable.

She did not flee. She did not call out.

Aurora simply stood there, small and dark amid the towering trunks, feathers stirring softly, waiting to see who - or what - the land would bring into her path next.

Aurora had already sensed him before he spoke - not by sound alone, but by the subtle disturbance his presence caused in the forest’s quiet rhythm. Still, when she turned, it was not toward a threat she faced, but a curiosity she allowed.

Her rainbow-hued eyes settled on him, taking him in piece by piece.

There was a softness to his glow, gentler than her own, as though it lingered close to his skin rather than spilling outward. It caught in the curves of his form, outlining draconic features she did not often see so clearly in these woods. Her gaze lingered briefly on the golden horns crowning his head, the way light slid along them, then traced downward, over the lines of his build, to the clawed feet that marked him as something both grounded and formidable.

He was.... Interesting.

Aurora did not move away. If anything, she leaned into her stillness, head tilting slightly as feathers along her shoulders shifted with a faint rustle of color. The soft glow around her remained steady, a quiet presence rather than a warning. She had been followed, yes - but not with hunger or malice. Curiosity recognized its own.

For a long moment, she simply observed him, small and dark amid the forest’s muted greens, eyes reflecting faint bands of color as they studied his expression, his posture, the careful way he held himself.

“You are not,” she answered at last, her voice calm, low, and unhurried. “The forest carries many footsteps. Yours were… thoughtful.”

Her gaze lifted again to his horns, then back to his face, something gentle and inquisitive settling into her expression.

“I was wondering who felt bright enough to follow.”

Aurora felt his gaze settle on her as clearly as she had felt his presence in the forest, and it drew a subtle, instinctive reaction from her before she could still it. Her head dipped a fraction, rainbow eyes lowering briefly as though the earth beneath her hooves had suddenly become worthy of closer study. The soft glow about her did not fade, but it seemed to pull inward, gentler, more restrained.

“Thoughtful can still be noisy,” she replied quietly, the faintest hint of warmth threading her voice. “Especially when curiosity grows impatient.”

When she looked back up at him, it was with care rather than confidence. Her eyes traced him again - not boldly, but in fleeting glances. The golden horns caught her attention first, light sliding along their curve. Her gaze lingered there longer than she intended before drifting to the draconic lines of his frame, the strength in his clawed feet. She shifted her weight slightly, feathers along her shoulders giving a soft, nervous rustle of color.

At his words, something in her posture softened further. Compliments were not something Aurora often invited, and his admiration made her feel suddenly… seen. Too seen, perhaps. She let out a small breath, almost a quiet laugh, and glanced away again.

“It is only how I am,” she said, modest, almost apologetic. “The light comes with the rest of me. I do not try to draw attention to it.”

A pause followed, then she gathered just enough courage to look at him once more, curiosity peeking through her shyness like dawn through cloud cover.

“But… I am glad my glow did not trouble you.”

After a moment of soft silence, she smiled. "Was your curiosity rewarded when you followed its whims?"

Aurora watched the shift in him—the way his tone softened, the way his posture eased—and some of the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding loosened in turn. His words still made warmth stir beneath her dark coat, but it no longer felt overwhelming. Merely… gentle.

At his admission, her ears flicked forward, then back again in a small, uncertain motion. “I do not mind,” she said after a moment, voice quiet but sincere. “It is simply… unexpected.” Her eyes lifted to him briefly, shimmering with muted color, before drifting aside once more. “I am not often spoken to that way.”

When he lowered himself to the forest floor, making himself smaller rather than larger, Aurora visibly relaxed. The crossing of his legs, the unguarded ease of the gesture—it mattered. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she took a small step closer, careful, measured, curiosity outweighing her reserve by just a little.

“Maeral,” she repeated softly, as though tasting the sound of it. A faint smile touched her muzzle, shy but real. “It is a good name.”

She inclined her head in return, feathers catching the light as they shifted. “I am Aurora.” A pause followed, then she added, almost hesitantly, “And… I would like that. A friend, I mean.”

Her gaze lingered on him now, no longer darting away quite so quickly—still reserved, still cautious, but open enough to let something new begin.

Aurora seemed almost surprised by his surprise, ears flicking as she gave a small, thoughtful nod. “Not often,” she confirmed gently. “Most pass by. Or they look, but do not linger.” Her gaze dipped again, shy but honest. “I am… easy to miss, I think, if one is not already looking.”

When he repeated her name, something soft settled behind her eyes. She shifted her weight, feathers giving a quiet ripple of color as she studied the way he had made himself comfortable on the forest floor. The ease of him—unhurried, open—invited her closer than words alone ever could.

She took another careful step forward.

“If you consider yourself a friend,” she said, a hint of warmth threading her voice, “then I will try to do the same.” It was not said lightly. Friendship, to Aurora, was not a thing given freely—but it was offered here, cautiously, sincerely.

Her curiosity, long held in check, finally nudged its way forward. “Do you often walk these woods alone, Maeral?” she asked, head tilting slightly. Her eyes traced his horns again before she caught herself and looked instead to his face. “Or were you searching for something when you found me?”

A pause, then another question, quieter. “You spoke of longing before… Does the forest help with that, or only make it louder?”

She waited then, small and luminous in the shade of the trees, genuinely interested in the answers he might give.

Aurora listened with quiet attentiveness, the kind that showed in stillness more than motion. When he smiled at her approach, she answered with a small one of her own—brief, almost hidden—but genuine. Up close, the soft glow about her seemed warmer rather than brighter, like embers instead of flame.

“You did,” she said gently. “Not in words exactly. But it was in how you spoke. And how you looked at things.” Him included.

His admission of walking alone drew a flicker of recognition in her expression. That, at least, she understood well. “Alone can be peaceful,” she murmured. “But peace and fullness are not always the same thing.”

She lowered her head slightly, studying the pattern of leaves between them before lifting her gaze back to him. Shyness lingered, but curiosity held steady beside it now, giving her voice a bit more shape.

“What kind of fulfillment are you hoping to find?” she asked. “Is it companionship… purpose… or something harder to name?”

Her ears tipped forward, attentive. “You collect stones, you said. Rare ones. Things with something hidden inside.” A small pause. “Do you think what you’re looking for feels like that too? Something waiting to be uncovered?”

She shifted her stance again, a quiet, thoughtful movement. “And… if walking alone only helps a little—why keep choosing it?”

Aurora listened as though his words were something fragile being placed carefully between them. She did not interrupt, did not rush him—only watched with bright, patient eyes that shimmered faintly as light slipped through the leaves overhead. When his face scrunched in frustration at the unnameable feeling, a small, airy huff of laughter escaped her before she could stop it.

It wasn’t mocking—just warm, soft, lightly amused.

“That face,” she said gently, a shy smile tugging at her muzzle. “You look like you tried to bite a sour berry and it bit back.”

Her feathers fluttered with the tiny burst of humor, colors shifting as she stepped another half-step nearer, clearly more comfortable now. His struggle to name the feeling did not frighten her off; if anything, it seemed to draw out her gentler curiosity.

“Some things are like that,” she mused. “Like a song you can hum but not quite sing. Or a scent on the wind you keep chasing and never catch.” She tilted her head. “I think you are allowed to walk with a question instead of an answer sometimes. The forest does it all the time.”

At the mention of stones again, her expression brightened noticeably. Playfulness sparked there—small but real.

“Oh! Then you are walking in the wrong patch of woods,” she declared softly, as if sharing a conspiratorial secret. “You’ve let your feet be terribly inefficient, Maeral.”

She turned slightly and gestured with her nose down a thinner game-trail between the trees. “There is a creek not far from here. The water runs quick after the bends, and it gathers pretty things—striped stones, glassy ones, speckled ones. Sometimes they look plain until they dry, and then—surprise.” A tiny nod. “Very satisfying.”

Her eyes returned to him, hopeful but bashful about the offer. “If you would like… I could show you. It seems a shame to long for hidden treasures and not visit the place that hoards them.”