Cya had, for once, not been looking for fae.
She had been looking for someone who could help her fix her car, actually, or the thing that, 50 years past the end of most manufacturing in the world, she was calling a car.
It wasn’t that easy, however, when you were three days out from anywhere, you were driving a cobbled-together vehicle that ran on sunlight, hope, and magic, and the last time you’d seen anyone had been half a day ago.
And it was raining.
The man came out of nowhere, or at least, he seemed to, and when he saw her Mask was down, showing off her Fae traits, he dropped his own glamour to show her that he, too, was fae.
The unicorn horn caught her attention immediately, the golden hair – not blonde, gold – that ran all the way down his back, the skin that was just as golden. He was tall, very tall for this long past the apocalypse, and bright like a statue.
When he saw she was squinting, he put up his Mask again, leaving him red-haired and brown-skinned, freckles dancing over his nose that was nearly as pointed as the horn she couldn’t see anymore.
“So. Car troubles?” It was only then that she noticed he was carrying a bag of tools. “I had this sense someone here might need some help.”
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