Once upon a time long, long ago, a filly was born to a crimson king and grew up to bear his lineage with pride. That filly learned the importance of pure, unicorn blood at a young age. She was told that she was above everyone else because of the horn on her head that she wore like a crown, and she grew into a skilled young murderess, cold-blooded like her father, though she did not bear his bloody mark upon her hide. That mare would never had extended an offer of assistance to those she so clearly thought beneath her. No, that mare would have sat on her tall, iron throne and laughed at the bloodshed that ensued. She would not have cared who won the battles to come, instead reveling in the fact that impure blood would be spilled. The fewer the better, she would have thought, and then she would have thought no more about it.

The Dark Empress was no longer that mare.

Her maturity had come under forced circumstances, a situation that she had never imagined herself in. She had emerged from the FrostHeart's disappearance with a title and an adjusted personality that, if anything, made her even more dangerous than before. Where before she would have shown her hatred openly, cared very little if she offended anyone with her beliefs and customs, she had now learned diplomacy. Rather than shunning those in her lands that did not share in her racism, she welcomed all with a horn because it would add to her numbers. Rather than belittling those she found irritating or stupid, she strove to make them welcome, since happy herds would be all the more willing to defend their herd land. Yes, she had changed much, the shadow-mare had, though her core beliefs had never swayed.

And so when the rash of attempted thievery appeared in the Foothills, her interest was piqued, as it could only benefit her to know the goings-on of her neighbors, and when she found out that the Grey was behind it all, she was even more curious. There was an end game, she knew there was. After all, was she not just as conniving and manipulative than any of the mercenaries? Groups so large did not do things for no reason. She remembered Ophelia, for they had met now several times, and she had even grown to respect the soft-spoken ivory fae. She had held herself with grace and poise each time the shade had addressed her, but she was not soft. No, the Lady of the Basin could tell that the femme had a quality about her than could make her quite dangerous, though she would be hard-put to name it. As for her organization, Psyche had maintained an interest in the Grey. After all, the Basin was forbidden from creating alliances - if they should ever need help, they would have to buy it.

With that in mind, she had been careful not to fray their limited relationship with the mercenary band. When that stupid bumbling draft had stumbled into her lands, she had sent her away with a simple warning, all because Ophelia was there. The meeting may not have been sanctioned by the Grey, but why threaten one that had once been theirs? Again, she was forced to consider how much she had changed when she allowed Tor to walk away unscathed. And she seemed the better for the changes. She was certainly more stable in her leadership. She hoped that it would also assist her as she ventured forth to offer assistance rather than ask for help. What the Grey was after, she was still unsure - but would it not be easier to accomplish their means without having to guard their prisoners? It was a doubly positive arrangement, as far as she could see. The Grey would be free to do whatever it was that they had planned (after all, it didn't really concern her), and the Basin (or, rather, the Plague) would gain some wonderful new playtoys. What could go wrong?

Besides, if she helped, they would owe her.

"Talk talk talk."