"No issue there," she mutters quietly.

It is gorgeous. Harrow never went through a horsegirl phase, because horses are extinct and sometimes girl feels like a Protean bed she doesn't quite fit, but something like it kindles in her wasted necromancer's heart at the sinewy, skeletal body of the creature and its sable wings.

The thestral stirs and pulls closer, deeply interested; Harrow smells like blood at all times and in particular today.