Luna liked thestrals. They didn't mind her.
And they felt nice.
Skin, smooth. Skin, scaly. Skin, velvety. Hair, coarse. Wings, leathery.
Bumps and indentations, bones.
Hands: pet, pet, pet.
A sound: a soft whicker.
(She made the sound back.)
She could lose herself here, for a bit, in the good-nice way.
(Not in the bad-painful way.)
Luna didn't understand why people were afraid of thestrals. People were a bit silly.
She hummed a little, a snippet of a waltz song, and watched the thestrals eat.