Crowley had not been wrong in his assumption that the young equine standing before him was new. Only a fool would venture so close to Basin territory, but there was little chance that this flaxen maned girl knew anything about the unicorns that ruled the snowy tundra of the north. Either she was a very good actor, or she truly thought that this was a wasteland, as she described.
"The grass is mangy here, yes, but the Steppe is far from a wasteland, darling. Perhaps you're just looking in all the wrong places." A smile slipped across the dark mare's lips, softer than his own, but it did not change his demeanor in the slightest. In fact, he began to pace forward when she spoke up again, aiming to pass by her left before twisting about behind her, and walking out on the other side, like a shark circling a helpless swimmer.
The scent of another came upon the wind, this one he knew, yet not terribly well. It was a brother within the Plague, Ulrik if he remembered correctly, artisan of machines, which was only made more obvious when Crowley's eyes found the strange wolf-esque thing trailing along at his heels. Ulrik spoke, his words only strengthening Crowley's own thoughts unspoken, before presenting a deadly horn at the mare.
Putting his focus back on the chocolate mare, Crowley drew to a stop and suppressed a laugh at the entire situation. When he spoke, his words were directed at the youngest of the group. Just like Lana, the Weaver was certain that this nameless equine would be able to provide endless hours of entertainment for his brothers and sisters, until she fell in a blood heap to the icy ground. "I seek nothing here, mare; this is my home, and I do not take kindly to loitering upon my doorstep. Please... why don't you come in for a spell? Stay a while."
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HP: 45
