The little shadow mare knew this scent. It was a stench that brought little joy to her senses, was merely detected with a sad indifference, a memory of what could have been, what never will be. Mirage had no interest in taking someone’s lover from their grasp, it’s not like such a thing was a possession one could simply steal anyway. The lover being spoken of was, of course, Torasin, a stallion she did indeed love dearly, and held in high regard, but not one who she would ever call her soulmate. No, the little shadow had found her soulmate in a very different stallion, one who called to her draconic side as well as her equine appeal. But still, the scent she detected now brought these thoughts to the forefront, for this was the scent of Torasin’s chosen mate, a rough soul whom Mirage knew little of, but trusted that if Torasin’s heart had been captured by her there must be something worth loving there –right?

She followed the larger femme, for one with such an imposing presence as Brooke left a trail that wasn’t necessarily easy to follow, but for one who was as well practised as this charred femme in tracking whoever she wanted it was second nature. Akaith flitted above her, her golden form perhaps looking more like random sunbursts than an actual, complete dragon. The mare walked without her cloak today, she did not fear the one she was following and was interested to see what it was Brooke had found. It was then that the faint curl of Isilme tickled her nostrils, but it was indeed faint, and obscured by many layers of other realms. She supposed her own scent might be similar, for her stay at Isilme was brief and a very long time ago, the scent of Helovia would have surely overpowered much else by now. Of course, then there was the always underlying smell of lands foreign to most here, lands of the Path of the Moon –but that is a tale for another time.

The rosy belle before her was rosy it seemed only in appearances, her stance and posture suggested she was not one that you would want to get riled. There was something about her crown that Mirage recognised, and she dug upon the memories of Isilme carefully, pulling faces to her mind’s eye, trying to piece together who this minx might be, but failed to recall a name, and her scent was familiar only in the streak of Isilme that coated it. Adawulf, the thought was fleeting, as the black mare had only met him briefly. Arching her nape, Mirage gave a small tilt of her tiara to Brooke, internally she rolled her eyes at the mare’s uncouth ways of speaking to others. Being a bully achieved little, at least, this is what Mirage had learned in her long life. Mirage played games to further her knowledge about others, for knowledge to her was power, a drug that she could never get her fill of; Brooke’s tactics spoke of simple abuse, with no aim for gain on any sides, except perhaps Brooke’s own ego.

The shadowy one peered with her golden eyes at the roaned one, nape curling on itself once more as she inclined her chiselled façade in greetings. It was then that the golden companion alighted herself upon Mirage’s rump, as delicately as a flower petal might land upon a pillow. Daughter of a gold. The dragon said, with a soft snort and puff of smoke trailing from her nostrils. Realisation then clicked, and Mirage recognised the daughter of Black Minx, the strong mare whom had led the equines of Isilme for some time. Minx had been bonded to a gold who was older even than Akaith, a gold Mirage suspected could have even been Akaith’s own biological mother – but such things were unimportant in the grand scheme of things of the present moment.

“You are so assuming, Brooke.” Mirage spoke kindly, not meaning to offend the larger maiden, merely wanting to observe what Brooke so openly paraded about. Making assumptions was a fine thing to do, but only if one sought to get those assumptions confirmed.
“My name is Mirage.” Her accented tones spoke now to the newcomer, it was unusual for her to proffer her name so willingly to one she did not know – but then, maybe Mirage did know this minx.
“You walk upon the Threshold of Helovia, daughter of Black Minx and Adalwulf.” Once again she offered information willingly, hoping to draw even more from this dappled femme with her generous words. She waited then, not wanting to offer too much, too soon, and hoped for a reaction that confirmed her suspicions, or otherwise showed her whether her presence here was warranted or not.