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How long had it been since Circe had found herself within the bosom of Helovia, broken and bitter and seeking another purpose in life? How long had it been since that brusque, short-spoken mare, Lakota, had offered a home for the dejected sorceress? Surely it seemed a lifetime away from the old style that she had lived her life—a complete 180 from the things she knew and the ones she loved. She was a stranger in strange clothing, riding aboard a strange, rickety wagon to a strange location in a strange place she didn’t know. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying; though her face was composed and her stance secure, there was a faint quiver racking her limbs, ever so slight, that betrayed her nervousness, her homesickness for things that were familiar.
She was a part of the Grey now—once more a piece of a greater whole, a component of a unified body. Call her insufficient or afraid of leadership, but it would be a false representation of the sorceress Circe. She was not so foolish to assume she could wear the mantle of a leader. Circe knew, while she was perfectly capable and worthy in her accomplishments, there are other, greater forces of nature that were wiser and powerful than she. And so it seemed to be with this band of Mercenaries; Circe sensed great promise within their ranks, perceiving them as a mighty force of nature. Their recent invasion of the Foothills were testament to this power.
Though the sorceress wasn’t in it for the benefits of strength—no, she was not so vain. She merely wanted to be used to her fullest potential. This seemed like the place to showcase her capability, which is why she paced here now, in the shallow, chilling waters of a tiny brook that wound its way among the valleys and crests of the land. Circe was a creature of composure, but she was quickly losing her poise to her indignation; she breathed heavily through her nostrils, tossing her head up and down, her leonine tail lashing behind her as a whip might lash the merchant’s oxen. At the apex of her frustration, Circe aimed a kick a smaller boulder; it sailed away some yards from the sorceress, manipulated by the allure of her black magic and the fury powering Circe’s blow.
She barely noticed the flying rock. This is stupid of me, she mused, the irritation starting to bloom and blossom all over the place in her head, why am I acting like this? Must resume control over myself. Yet the horned mare couldn’t deny the reason for her discontent; here she was, in the heart of the conquered territory, won by the group she had newly devoted herself to. And she had taken no part in the invasion.
She felt wasted and betrayed; shades of her previous anger permeated her demeanor, and a haze of white threatened to obscure her vision. Could she not prove herself to these warriors? Was there no room for proving ones’ self in this land? Was she branded useless before she lifted a hoof in demonstration? These and other thoughts raced through Circe’s mind, though as she paced to and fro through the shallow creek-bed, a foundation of reason stood sentinel in the midst of her emotional turmoil. You came at the brink of invasion, a tiny voice attempted to sooth behind her eyes, their plans were laid and already set to commence. You are a stranger to them; would you expect them to potentially foil their own plot by recruiting an untested foreigner? You could have ruined months of planning. Circe knew the wisdom behind the decision, and knew that her discontent was irrational—but it didn’t stop the shame and loneliness from shining through her breast.
And really, that’s what it was all about; proud as she might be, the girl was lonely at heart.
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