The sunlight was warm and heavy as a blanket on Nymeria's spine as she drifted through the trees. Winter was beginning to thaw away, and her winter coat with it; but she didn't pay much attention to the trickle of melting icicles or the glistening sheen stretched across snowbanks. The snow that crunched beneath her hooves, the water that trickled down her spine as she passed beneath great tree branches bowed with the weight of snow—all of that was an impossibly tame expression of spring.

What spring reminded her of... what spring reminded her of... was her birth. Of her mother. Of her brother.

She shoved the thoughts away. Instead she schemed—dreaming ways to overthrow czars kings, dreaming ways to capture a god's attention, dreaming ways to rule the world. Once, when she had been younger and more foolish, her schemes had seemed (albeit distant) fantasies of her future: now they were a coping mechanism. It was easier to plot out intricate heists than it was to address her own small and tumultuous personal failures. Lilómiel scolded her for her absent-mindedness (warning her she should be devoting her attention to garnering respect and fame), but she couldn't help it. Maybe her body was that of a woman's (lush, thick, curvaceous), and yet she was still had in many ways the heart and mind of a child. She did not have the experience, or the maturity, that she knew she needed to rule. For now she was content enough to remain a dreamer rather than a doer.

The hushed pitter-patter of thawing snow was interrupted by a new rhythm. Nymeria, shaken from her weathered imagination, lifted her head, nostrils flaring delicately to find a new scent. There it was on a breeze: decidedly foreign among the pine and the spray of the Falls. Despite the colors she wore on own skin, she was tempted to ignore the intruder. It would certainly be easier to turn around and stalk away, perhaps even seek out Själ; but she couldn't have that on her conscience. An opportunity had presented itself to her. She shouldn't let it go to waste.  

Biting back an irritated sigh, Nymeria cast out ribbons of thought, delving into the mind of her companion. Lilómiel stretched out his wings; using both his eyes and her own senses, Nymeria adjusted her path to head off the stranger's approach.

The trees had not yet parted when the stranger called out with a voice like drifting, rose-scented petals, a Murtagh and a you home? all given in breathless clarity. Almost immediately Nymeria's mood took another turn for the worse. What kind of idiot, she thought, starts shouting for someone in the middle of enemy territory? Her brows drawing to a tight and straight line, her lips pursed, the grullo mare plunged her abrupt way along one of the better-worn paths, not making any effort to hide the heaviness of her footfalls. Lilómiel, still coasting on the wind, let out a soft hiss of approval.

It appeared, however, she would not be the first to meet the intruder as a young colt (bear in tow) burst into sight ahead of her with a whinnied Ërthe! Once more Nym glared: then, with an irate huff, she marched out of the trees to get her own look at the intruder. Sure enough, she looked exactly as Nymeria would have expected: waif-y, delicate, a luxurious mane and tail, embodying the silken perfection of her voice in a pale-as-snow blue-as-faded-ice way. Shadows rippled across her smooth pink-tinted skin, glistening on oxidized copper eyes and fragile horns.

Nym, her expression still tight with irritation, softened the pull of her mouth and offered the intruder a nod as the colt babbled a greeting. The two were clearly friends, despite the intruder's scent.

So instead of interrupting (as she was so dearly tempted to) Nymeria waited to offer a greeting.  "I'm Nymeria," she said, amiable, friendly, a voice of reason. "I don't mean any harm, but I'm not sure you should this far within the Falls' border."