It takes Phila a moment to realise that there is someone sat at her left. This is unusual enough, as, without playing the braggart, she would deem herself decently perceptive. Though at times, she almost wished she was not. Such a skill, before dedicated to picking out murmurs of dissent in training formations, or a lagging pegasi, had written the faces of her fallen sisters across her mind for all of time: in the end her quick eyes had only served to pick out the faces of the fallen. Now she tuned them to her bow-string; identifying singular targets.
And she was distinctly singular. Sat alone, with wan, sunken eyes trying their level best not to be caught by another's gaze. They too, seemed to have taken their fill of death.
Shifting in her seat, she glances at the candle between them. The flame dances, flickering under the rushing of fabric passing their table. She thinks her neighbour is looking too. In the pale dawn sky of her iris the candle provides a neat illusion of inward illumination. As if the sun had risen on a dead world.
'Hello, I am Phila - a flight instructor at this academy.' She says, because she can think of nothing else to say. 'What is your name?' Her bag of gifts rustles, forgotten as she shifts to turn towards her. 'Oh, I had almost forgotten. Did you recieve a greeting gift too? I must admit, I am unused to such gestures.' This must be the most words she has exchanged with another in a while; a light tinge of pink rose to her cheeks before she could stop it. But, surely, it was in the spirit of things to be conversational?
She is seated with hands in her lap. Though others have already started picking at the food lain across the table or chatting with their neighbors, her gaze is focused on the candlelight between her neighbor and her. Not all fire is a trigger to her, only large, gulping blazes. But that is how they all start, as a flicker small enough to snuff out with a boot. Her hunger is hardly noticeable buried beneath the anxiety in undulating coils.
Similar to being doused in oil, once fire’s curl reaches you, there is no escape from it, the event feels a bit like that, inescapable, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The lady next to her begins to speak, surely it cannot be toward herself, yet it is. Her voice is mature and refined like a crisp refreshment in a steel chalice. She looks toward her neighbor now, washing away whatever stone-like, possibly petrified, expression that wears on her face, as if it is something forgotten.
“Phila,” she repeats, “What a lovely name.”
Rinea smiles easily, noting the blush that colors the other girl’s cheeks. Though it is nothing she can be certain, there is some familiarity about the girl, perhaps it is just the similar hair color that splashes her imagination.
“Rinea is mine,” she answers, unsure of what else to tack onto herself. It is preferable that she remain undistinguishable. To be a walking specter across the canvas of posterity; if she left any drop behind, let its strokes not lead to her footsteps.
She pauses to bring the pouch to front and lays it upon the table with a soft thud. “Yes, I suppose the hosts have given all their guests one. They have spent a great deal on this little gathering, haven’t they?”