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The shadowmere furrowed her brow as she listened to the playful, azure words from the shorter mare. “Never have…I...have I ever?” she stumbled with her thick, clumsy tongue, lisp and all, trying to repeat the name of whatever mischief Ampere seemed to have up her sleeve. Several seconds elapsed while Circe processed the rules of the game, her eyes wandering vaguely from Ampere’s electric gaze and floating over the still, snow-capped nightfall, the clear, bitterly bright starlight that shattered over the landscape, the blurry, ghost-like images of her sons still huddled together underneath the shadow of the splayed branches, where she had left them, supposedly not very safe but very much sound for the moment. She snorted then, snapping her head back towards the Pegasus, the idea of the game finally making some kind of sense to the inner workings of her fuzzy, pseudo happy mind.
“Alright, then,” she sighed heavily, settling on one hind hoof as she waited for Ampere’s assertion, slightly melancholy at the restriction of her otherwise boundless apple consumption. Dancing, hmm? The dark mare mulled over that one for a moment (admittedly, everything needed to be mulled over in her current inebriated state). The term nope sprung to her lip, for the word “dance” brought to mind images of dainty, surprisingly gorgeous equine creatures tip-toeing through the tulips, a vapid mist in their eye as they contorted their limber bodies in time to the phantom music of make-believe dreams—and Circe was certainly not a creature inclined to such garish behavior.
But then…then another memory permeated her apple-soaked mind. The memory of her sons, so tiny back then, sitting before her wide-eyed and bored as she explained to them the importance of a limber, flexible body in the heat of battle. What had she told them? ”You will grow up to be large, like your father, I’m guessing. You have seen the power with which he moves—yet he dances in battle…” Circe blinked away the blurriness of the cider, only rising from the turbid waters of confusion as she made the discovery that she would be able to partake of the fruit once more. With a sloppy, triumphant smirk, she quickly ducked her head and plucked one more rancid apple from the snow. “I am most graceful tribal stomper,” she slurred dryly through the sour juices, and she swallowed her coveted treat while thinking of a claim she could throw into the fray.
“Hmmmm….” Circe pondered, an ear cocked as she strove to come up with an idea for a task impossible for the shadowmere, yet quite conceivable for the electric Pegasus. “Never have I—no, no, not that one...” she muttered, furrowing her brow and catching the tail-ends of her phrase before it wandered too far from her tongue; lies would’ve been released from her maw if she had allowed her claim to escape passed her teeth. The only merit her phrase had was that it had been most interesting indeed, bold even….and after the shining intensity of her previous claim, Circe found herself floundering for an equally suitable phrase to challenge Ampere with. With a hapless shrug, she blurted, “Never have I….crashed into thorny tree from sky.” Her wording clumsy and her thoughts as fuzzy as her tongue, Circe kept herself from going for another apple, some distant piece of her mind alarmed at her sudden dependence on the fruit.
@[Ampere]
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