Unlike her highbred companion, Imogen is not frightened of the secrets that might lie beneath the stallion’s gentlemanly veneer and his wide, boyish gaze. Wary? Of course, but the slender mare is no stranger to secrets or manipulation—she has pulled people’s strings, covered their eyes, and played with their hearts, just as she has been manipulated and played. It is not by sheer discipline and ambition alone that her masks have been shaped and fitted seamlessly onto her pretty lips. From the faces of others (others who have used and abused and molded the cat into the predator she is today) she has taken their masks, and from their tongues she has taken their tricks, and brandished these weapons herself.

Beneath black eyes swathed in guarded politeness and questioning curiosity (sheets of velvet and silk) the petite pegasus picks apart their new company, pinning his body like a moth to a table, dissecting and studying. What makes you tick, boy? What makes you kneel? She seems to say, laugh, wielding her razor knife over his belly with a macabre smile. The push and pull of his muscles as he steps back, the lilt of his lips, the twist of his ears, the shift of his weight—all of these things she inspects. She fluctuates in response, fitting like water to a glass, wanting to see what will please him—

—what will disarm him.

“We have been traveling for many weeks,” poisoned sugar slips from charcoal lips, lilting as though it is an explanation, an apology, for the tension that has arrived with him (the words molding into what he might want to hear). “My name is Imogen, and this is Rukh,” the roaned pegasus gestures to the pale mare standing behind her shoulder, creamy primaries extending to brush the little lamb’s skin. Imogen can feel her unease, her suspicion, and continues to stand guard, as if to protect and posses.

Sighing quietly from her nostrils, she continues offhandedly, “The bird is Cinaed,” sparing only a tilt of an ear in the little pest’s direction (merely introducing him for her nazahna’s sake), before her attention continues with Ilios’ words. Four herds in this land Helovia, a herd of unicorns he says, warns, before offering them a place in his home (Dragon’s Throat). One side of her brow arcs upward, lips pressing briefly into a neutral line, but there is no other outward indication of the disgust that boils in her chest, the bile that rises to her throat and sours the back of her tongue.

She dare not forget the teachings that her mother had instilled in her since birth, the prophecies and ordinances that the High Priestesses of Santiele had upheld for ages—ordinances that she (the final Priestess) must now uphold. Whatever Gods reign in Helovia (if, in fact, there are any) must not be the same as the Santiele deities of her homeland, (the true Gods), to allow such a filthy kingdom to exist. What devilry must reign in that place in the north? How far has their corruption been allowed to spread?

Adjusting her golden cloak over her shoulders, Imogen puts on a gracious smile (perhaps overly so, considering the fierce burning in her heart) and inclines her head to the stallion. “We’ll keep that in mind,” she offers by way of appreciation, beady eyes glittering and bright teeth glowing beneath dark, dark lips. “A desert island, with an oasis—that does sound delightful. I am anxious to learn more of this world and its lands,” this, at least, is threaded with truth, and she sighs airily, “It would seem your invitation is too beautiful to resist.” Long, dark locks flick around her ankles as she looks back to Rukh, offering empty comfort. If nothing else, their companionship isn’t bound to change. “Lead the way, stranger,” she glances to Ilios with something between a smile and a smirk, dark wings hovering readily from her sides.


“Speech.”

imogen

I know how to be your fantasy