She was not in the mood for politics, not today - not now.

It was all a game to them, as it used to be for her. They were pawns on a metaphorical chess board, carefully plotting moves to work their way into victory, supremacy, superiority - call it what you will. It required careful observation, meticulous planning, and all for what? She had been the queen, one of the most powerful pieces on the board. She was still their queen, but now the playing field tilted precariously, setting their side on its head and sending members of their herd flying into the dark abyss of nowhere - or was it somewhere? It was just a game, and yet it was the game. This was the only thing that mattered, the only way to carry out her lifelong desires. Regardless of who was lost... or perhaps in memory of who was lost.

A familiar scent drifted to her nostrils, and she turned to glare at the newcomer. Strange colors, leonine tail, white-tipped horn. Ambrosius. A hot breath released, as though to snort his smell from her nose, and she pushed her way out of her little trench, intent on telling him off. Oh, it wasn't his fault, of course, but she was angry, and lost, and - Scared? a mental voice sneered. Oh, grow up. But it wasn't just some attack, Mauja had vanished right before her eyes. He was there and then he simply wasn't. What's a mare to do?

"Lady Psyche, is there something the matter?"

The question, simple enough in its content though, perhaps, lacking in sincerity (this was not assumed based on anything lacking on his part, but rather a knowledge of how to play the game, so to speak) made her take pause. No rash actions, she couldn't afford to chase away those who would make her army. She regarded him shrewdly, giving away no emotion, though she knew that he'd see right through it. After all, he must have heard her scream - what else would have enticed him this direction? Her vocals, when she deigned to speak, were a bit short, though not the burst of anger that she had originally intended. "Ambrosius," she nodded in way of greeting.

"We have bloody hornless and the nasty skyrats roaming about, of course something's the matter." By now, she was recovering her persona somewhat, and her tones had taken on an alluring, dangerous quality. A slight smile was given, though her eyes still sparked rather unhappily. Let him think it was anger that the inferiors were everywhere. Let him think that she simply wanted action. It mattered not to her. Her mask was returning, a mask of fire and ice all mixed into one psychopathic crown. She wore it with pride, this figurative symbol of her authority. She drew herself up, holding her head proudly, haughtily in the air, as though showing off her horn - her birthright - to the skies.

[W/C | 497]