She might have allowed the anger to take over, were she not so busy trying to come up with an escape plan.

She understood now the vehemence of the impures that they had gathered over the past weeks. She understood how degrading it was to be held prisoner, like a caged bird, so close to freedom and yet, metaphorical wings clipped, tied down. And she, at least, was being treated well, a weakness in her opponents that she was certainly exploited. She was the better captor, she and her band. They ensured that their prisoners were beaten and bruised, warned of the effects of attacking the superior species. And they would carry stories back with them, were they to escape. She was confident that those of the Throat had few secrets that they would be able to exploit; no more did the Foothills or the Edge have secrets. But the Basin? They were a secret.

Or they had been. But days had passed now, and surely someone would have tracked the scent of unicorn through the pass and into the valley beyond. But perhaps all would not be lost - perhaps her kin would successfully fight them off, successfully hold down the fort, as it were. Who would rise to the occasion? She had spoken highly of d'Artagnan, the Time Mender, and his Nurse, Kou; she had also named Deimos, her newly-appointed general. These were the names that she had used to quell Elizabeth's fears. But would they really do as she had said they would? And even if they did, what of the non-racists in her herd? Of course, she knew they were there. She would be a fool to ignore their presence. She had chosen to withhold appointment of some of the higher ranks, waiting to learn more of them, so she might give positions of power to those not in her little group, to gain everyone's trust. For these were the things she must think of these days...

But such thoughts made her head ache, and she found herself wishing for the simpler days, when Mauja had handled diplomacy with the herd whilst she plotted with her select few, in secret. Now she feared that their secret was very close to discovery, which could very well prove catastrophic. If she even had a secret to return to, when she escaped the gods-cursed desert. It was times like these that she missed the FrostHeart, not for what he had been to her, but for his leadership. She struggled to model herself after him, albeit in her own way; but she was not a fool. Diplomacy was a skill she ought to have learned from him long ago, not as an afterthought, not in retrospect when she had already assumed the throne.

An oddly familiar stench filled her nostrils, and with surprise the Dark Empress halted from the easy trot that she had taken up. She knew her guard would not be far; he would catch up to her were she to roam too far. One day, she would break free of his hold, but for now... The smell drew her closer, and she could not tell if it marked one that she knew or if the smell of rotting flesh was simply common in her life. Most likely, it was the latter, but there was something about it that jogged a distant, foggy memory. And then she was upon him, the little undead colt-stallion. She knew him, of course she knew him, for he had joined her Plague long ago. But she had not seen him since, and had he always had wings?

She halted before him, cranium tilted as though in confusion or thought. No, he had been wingless before. In fact, he had joined her quest to rid the world of wings. So why would he have a pair - a very sickly looking pair - riding upon his shoulders? What trickery was this? She could not think of a proper greeting; she did not know if he would even remember her. Sharp eyes gave him a once-over, maw curled into a frown, but she did not draw away from him, as she might have done had she not previously known him. Instead, at a loss, her rather brash personality kicked into gear, and she spoke before thinking. "Well, don't you look rather the worse for wear?"

[W/C | ---]