Once again the devil's two-toned eyes drifted across the smooth surface of the lake, resting confidently upon the shaggy stranger that continued to stand stationary and watch them. What did he want? Did he know Deimos? Rhiannon's chin lifted a bit in dominance, in defiance, in stubborn superiority that she had developed since a petite filly and directed her burning gaze back to the Reaper.

His following words echoed in her skull, that he was glad to see her, and a warped quirk twitched the brindled beast's lips upwards in a snarling sort of grin, eyes wild, yet humbled. "I feel the same, your Lordship," she purred with a dip of her crowned head, frosted curls trailing along the crest of her neck and brushing against an ample, shadowed bosom, "I feel like a stranger in this land, and it is relieving for me to see a familiar face. I... Have not seen nor heard of my family."

If there was even any of them left.

The vehement King continued on, speaking eloquently of the changes within the Aurora Basin. He extrapolated the details, pressing their dire need of crafters, spies, and soldiers. Rhiannon's expression faltered. Once, the beast had held the title of Weaver, and while it had been with honor that she had carried it, she had failed miserably while holding the title, shaming her father's memory as Weaver. Although craftsmanship would always be within her blood, within her core, perhaps her fate would not be to pursue such an artistic purpose within the Basin once again... Perhaps, something darker? Something deeper? More mysterious, requiring her to use her mind, her cunning skills of deceit?

Yet the life of a soldier would always beckon her. Rhiannon was a specter, a devil, a drunk that overindulged on carnage and bloodshed. She yearned for the battlefield, for the adrenaline, the euphoric thrill, the need to physically thrust her dominance on others...

Instead of picking a title, the female straightened, eyes once more shooting to the stranger as he drew closer. She snorted. Did he finally discover the gall to approach? Dual-toned eyes are as sharp as knives, staring, judging, molten-gold and frozen-silver baring nothing other than judgement. Surprisingly he offers a one word of welcome, and Rhiannon is pleased.

"Thank you, stag." She breathed upon a sultry murmur, letting her eyes roam his aged frame, from the tip of his horn to the final tuft of his tail. "And welcome to you." Rhiannon listened as Deimos spoke of the 'Rift', whatever the hell that was, and the fierce battle that was apparently fought in her absence. She snorted once more, this time in indignation. Of course.

Leave for a few months and all hell breaks loose. Of course.

"You know I am never afraid of a little scuffle, your Lordship," Rhiannon stated, deciding to simply cut straight to the point, "I desire to serve the Basin in more ways than one; I want to be a spy and serve from the darkness, but I desire to hone my skills when you assign spars and battles. I will make amends for my inactivity and my absence over the last few months, if you will give me the chance."

The devil within her condemned her decisions, her weaknesses, but the desperate woman in her breast prayed that he would. Purpose was what she needed, a target, a point, otherwise her mind would drive her into turmoil once again. Madness was a pale word that described her mental state, and maybe, just maybe, coming home would help soothe the demons.