Eventide is softly casting o'er the earth a magic spell,

And a love-song, everlasting, on the night wind seems to swell.

Ophelia's revelations thundered through the girl's mind like a herd of galloping elephants and left her numb with shock. Jaws slackened in a wintry gasp, eyes widening into a horrified stare that left the pale lady slightly unfocused and blurred.

But whether it was the correct thing that left her silent and stricken for several long moments however... Well. Erthë had heard mutterings and murmurs of the Goddess' transgressions before. To find them confirmed in such a place and manner was unpleasant to say the least, but after seeing the Lunar Queen in action both during battle and in a herd meeting the girl couldn't really say it surprised her.

Was it supposed to make her sad, angry, betrayed or resentful towards the goddess? Erthë had seen death, knew what it meant, had experienced sorrow and loss first hand though the actions of a deity. She wasn't impressed, no... but neither did she truly feel anything but regret as she looked at the crimson-touched mare, for the sorrow and anger she must feel over the loss.

"I'm sorry" she said quietly, pale eyes seeking out the vibrantly colored gaze of her unknown aunt with soft compassion expressed within their depths.

This did however pose an issue to the girl. If Psyche was dead, did this mean she was unable to fulfill her mother's dying wish?

Chewing absently on the lower lip her gazed trailed off to the playing dragons, tentacles of jealousy continually churning within her gut even with her mind of other things. It was so unfair. Volterra had strong magic, had not one but two dragons, he had a demi-god for a friend and one of the most powerful mares in Helovia for aunt - even a decorated mask on his face, like a creepy and distasteful crown.

It was easy for him to say "work hard". He already had so much. What did she have that could even compare to all these treasures?

Her Goddess was of ill repute, her herd was small and boringly peaceful, and her legs were useless. A father that was rarely present in her life, a magic she couldn't control and a quest she was unlikely to ever complete...

It sucked. It was unfair. She couldn't even hate it all, because the dragons were beautiful even though they weren't bonded to her, she loved her father and herd even though they were absent and small and boring, and the frosty, cold magic was hers even though it couldn't make the earth tremble and quake.  

The filly snorted quietly but managed a taught, tight-lipped smile towards the black giant, and then returned her attention to Volterra's aunt.

"I'm sorry she's dead. It makes things... complicated. Do you maybe know if she had any children? If not.. well... I guess I should give this to you instead."

She reached back and pulled from the folds of a wing the gnarled, twig-like remnant of a horn. It was short, snapped off its base just below the center point and dyed in a reddish-brown color - if you didn't know what it was it could easily be mistaken for a mere branch, leafless dry and dead. Erthë placed it on the ground between them and stepped back, expression difficult to read as she gazed up at the Amaranthine, looking for reactions, answers, any clues as to what she ought to do.

"I don't know how she came to possess it, but mother asked me to return it, before she died. It's something I have to do."