Even in the darkest stretches of Nymeria's memories, where the surroundings faded into a twilight blur and the words were spoken through mouthes full of taffy, she had known the Ancient Rotunda. The enthralling, kaleidoscopic light piercing through the glass construction—light painted in verdigris, emerald, cyan, crimson and gold—had an intimate familiarity akin to her mother's warm hip, or the taste of Volterra as she groomed him. It was hers; her home, her world, a cocoon of comfort when the days seemed too long and the night was restless with dark things. To say it was an object of her passion would've underscored the vast and undeniable significance of it in her mind and heart.

See, even in her absence, this was her territory. Had she been a wolf, it would've reeked of her urine; a bear, and the trees would be scored with the marks of her claws, tufted with glossy black fur; a stag, and her antlers would crack and bruise against the pillar foundation. As an equine, as a mare, she did not bother with the piss and shit of a stallion... but she expected others to stay away from it, perhaps delusionally.

For all her bravado, she was only a dark, smeary child.

Who is she? The filly watches from the shadows of the tree-line, well-disguised in darkness. Her mother had taught her this; how to stand rock-still, unflinching, to remain loose and fluid in face of danger. Eyes are drawn to motion. The stiller you stayed, the less likely you were to be caught out—even if you stayed in plain sight. Along her shoulder, her narrow-faced black remains tightly wound, a haughty scaled knot mirroring her queer stillness but for the flex of his claws. Sheer ebony talons prick into Nym's polished obsidian skin, a gradual pressure increasing with each moment. Feral thoughts reflectively coil in her mind, insidious tendrils creeping forth to weave and flex among her head, feelers made to push away her antipathy and caution. Images jitter and flash across the skull-faced's retinas, images designed to launch her into action, images needling at her cowardice.

Go.
Or at least that was the gist of it.

Slowly, cautiously, elegance wedded to the nubile flex of her skin, Nymeria begins to move, drawing forth from the shadows. Bright eyes affix on the mare painted in irisdiscence—for all the quivering uncertainty in her breast, the filly prides herself on the caustic casualness carefully arranged on her countenance. Weakness doesn't have a place in front of strangers.

Nymeria & Lilómiel

Caught in the fire, watch it burn,
Ash to ash, now it’s our turn,
Take their kingdom down and smash it to pieces