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The shadowmere would have gladly addressed the grievances of the intruding party; had she trespassed into some forbidden area of the Foot Hills, Circe would have wordlessly left those hallowed grounds, her musings and frustrations uninterested in petty wars for territory. The white shadow that ascended and partially blotted out the illuminate sky could have been a gentle greeting or a warning of sorts, had the creature chose to speak. Circe lifted her head slightly to gaze into the whitish eyes of this curious beast, beholding the trees that grew from him in the fashion of appendages and the condescending glare that lingered in those orbs of his.
What was this? Circe shook her head slightly as tiny crystals of ice began to fall gently into her forelock and mane—snow? At this time of year? She gave a slight snort that could have been construed as annoyed—she didn’t mind the cold in the slightest, but it was surely surprising considering Orangemoon barely had time to settle within the land. Did the Foothills even have the correct temperate condition for snow? the sorceress wondered, her eyes falling onto the white of the stranger’s coat. Ah. Was the brute causing this, using whatever black magic he may wield to beguile the snow fall to his fancy? What sort of temperament would a beast have to desire the air to freeze and weep tears of crystal frost?
Though Circe’s limbs had been tensed to meander away should the beast object to her presence, her stance eventually relaxed and the cock of her ear became inquiring as the brute stood silent and brooding, gazing at her wordlessly. Her head rose a fraction higher, her eyes becoming guarded; Circe didn’t quite understand what sort of message he was trying to convey. If she were intruding, she would move—but he didn’t demand her vacancy. If he desired companionship, Circe would oblige willingly—but he didn’t ask her name. It was all becoming rather irritating, with those moody eyes boring into her with no apparent reason.
Was the birch-stud challenging her?
Circe’s own gaze became narrowed as she studied his person. True enough, that white-grey coat did indeed stir some antipathy within the sorceress’s breast. Circe recalled her mother possessing such a complexion; she remembered that her matron was a broad she-beast as well, standing just as proudly and arrogantly as this stud here. Misplaced as her irritation may be, Circe’s blood began to crackle ever so slightly, her mind demanding answers from him:
What did he want, why was he staring?
“Can I help you?” Circe asked in her low, husky voice, the formality in her tone a sort of defiance to the strange beast. He was more than welcome to leave if her presence annoyed him; the Foot Hills was a large territory, and they were both free to its domain. She had noticed the scent of the Hills amongst the aroma of bark and leaves that plagued his form.
With an irate shake of her mane, Circe rid herself of the accumulating piles of snow that began to form there.
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