Själ

Winter was coming, and with it a feeling of darkness that the princess couldn't quite shake.  She'd spent the better part of the last year and a half in the north, reveling in the solitude that the cold, open, snowy spaces gave her.  There, she'd come to terms with the world as she knew it.  She'd no father, a dead mother, and friends as fleeting as the wind.  It seemed that everyone she had once sworn to protect had simply disappeared, off chasing their own destinies and leaving her to watch, stagnant, no longer sure of having a place where she fit.

But Själ had not wasted away in the northern reaches of the realm; no, she had come past the days of pouting over her misfortunes, plotting for her (sure-to-be-great) future.  Now, as a certain evil took hold in the snowy mountains of her hideaway, she emerged as a new mare.  Cool and distant, perhaps, but not wrapped up in her mother's fantasies any longer.  Psyche had been... not a great mother, but at least loving in her own way.  Whatever grandeur the DarkEmpress had once had, whatever royalty she had imagined impressed upon her daughter - it was the ravings of a dying queen, dethroned and removed from her home.  Själ had finally made her piece with that.

At some point in her wanderings, the princess mare had come across a few prizes.  Wrapped around her chest was a chest piece made of black leather, a breastplate meant to protect her heart from spearing.  It likely wouldn't deflect a strong, direct hit, but as long as she moved quickly enough, most physical attacks with slide right off.  On her right shoulder was a sheath holding a large dagger, a sharp, jagged thing that had looked oddly familiar to the unicorn when she'd found it.  Perhaps one day, she would connect the object to Psyche, for it was made of the deceased mare's missing horn; but for now, she merely named it Kejsardöme and spent her days learning its secrets.  The left shoulder of her armor held three small sheaths to hold a set of throwing knives.  She had practiced with the knives for the past six months since she found them, until she could strike a target the size of her hoof with ease.

Ansgar, never far from the mare, swooped from above, shrieking her falcon's call.  With surprising gentleness, the griffin settled on her master's haunches and set about preening her feathers.  Neither of the pair were used to southern temperatures, warmer than they had expected even in Orangemoon.  It was how they had come to rest in the Heart Caves, knowing that the darkness underground would be several degrees cooler than the air up above.  "Good hunting?" Själ murmured to the returning companion, who responded with a silent affirmative.  Satisfied, the mare set to grazing, the griffin curling up for a nap upon her back.

"Speak."
--Ansgar.--