She feels safer now that she has ever felt in the Falls.

Red eyes turn to observe silver. There is a venomous lacquer to her crimson gaze as she spits out her 'greeting'; she does not regret it. It is easy to be spiteful when she knows she'll have the muscle (re: Själ) to back her up if necessary... and, of course, it is easy to be spiteful when she hurts and aches and shivers, her head overgrown with weeds of memory and sensation. They are dandelions, thistles, and yellow toadflax: ugly, yellow, and furiously quick-spreading, choking out what little happiness she has found over the last year.

(Why did he need to show up now? Who was this... stranger?)

(Alternatively, perhaps it is a sign. She doesn't know if she believes in an inescapable destiny: but if it was the case, then Abraham and Själ and Mesec were a part of her path, each of them leaving an impact for a reason.)

It feels good to hear Själ's rabid and rapid defence, even if her accusations were misplaced. In the brief and splitting silence that follows the wolf-mare breathes to exhale out the tension coiling in her sinews. The faintest of wry smiles flicker across her lips. Then her ears swivel, latching onto the stallion's astonished and injured reply, her smile dying almost instantaneously. The worst parts of her wish to let him take the blame, to let their words scorn and sting him for the crime of being witness to her pain—the wiser, kinder pieces of her shift and collide and grapple for dominance (you can't do that to him! You shouldn't!)

"No," she sighs, sounding as sad as she would had he been the culprit, "he's not..." Not him. Not the one with the twisted horns and heinous eyes and abominable heart.

Some of the venom disappears from her eyes.

Sending a meaningful glance Själ's way (a plead, a please hear me out) Nymeria then takes advantage of Mesec's forthcoming apology. "It is not your fault," (even if you should not be here) "I was... distraught." There is a mask, marvellous in detail, fitting itself over her features: it is not a seamless transition (she cannot muster the energy) but the unhappiness is at least partially covered, her misery better disguised for the hybrid's benefit.

"There was an incident... involving a stallion." Words choke and seize in her throat. Eyelashes swing nimbly together to hide the brittle emotions in her eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. She must stay composed. She must—and yet she is fragile and crumbling anyways, unmade.

How quickly her disguise would fall apart under scrutiny.