Ophelia could have done without the heavy sigh that punctuated his obvious displeasure at her request. She was not making a request for herself, but for another - for a friend. What had been stolen from him had been stolen unjustly upon his first few steps into this new land. He had expected to be taken care of, and now the gods had earned themselves a new disciple in the church against the heavens. If Ophelia was going to pass judgement, given her knowledge on the matter, she would side with Murder.
The alabaster mare was cracking, but she held strong. She listened to him muse aloud and had found interest in the same subject. "I had wondered if he was named after the crows," she commented in return, waiting for him to give a definitive answers. Ophelia was not one to blame others for the actions or choices of their parents. Murder most likely did not name himself; he did not choose to be followed by crows. She did not choose for her father to pick his herd on the Tides over her life. So, she could not yet decide if his namesake was telling about his character or not.
Strange, dual colored eyes watched as the shock god began to disappear again, and she watched with a somber expression, expecting to be left alone to the snow and her own thoughts. Brows furrowed in confused when he formed a small river of thickly silver and blue substance that she could hardly see around his hooves. Ophelia lowered her neck as well and watched as his muzzle pulled out a strange stone hanging on black leather. The rock was the color of ebony with a crack in the middle which seemed to be filled with liquid silver, almost like Tinek's scales in the mist.
He left it in the snow and told her what it was for. Something about having instant communication, in case she needed him, was touching. Perhaps he was not such a thoughtless ass after all. While the device did not exactly calm the raging sea of her heart, the winds died down enough for the albatross to fly smoothly. "I will wear it, thank you," she promised. Was it a device of communication? Or was it a tracker for a possession? She was unsure.
Ophelia stuck her horn through the leather loop and picked it up off the ground. In one, gracefully concerted effort, she pinned her ears against her skull, tossed her head and knocked the loop over her crown to sit around her neck. The God of Time issued one final warning which she would heed as much as possible. He would not have to tell her twice to avoid the other gods; she had no desire to see any of them. "Farewell."
The silence that followed was deafening. Ophelia could hear the way her heart beat dully in her chest and the gentle whisper of the winds. Weakness overcame her, and she fell to her knees in the snow. She struggled beneath the weight that now sat squarely on her shoulders. Pregnant. How many times had she promised herself that she would wait for children? That bringing life into this world when she was still young herself was irresponsible? She had promised so many times that she would never succumb to desires in order to keep her fighting abilities strong, unencumbered by the demands and needs of life.
In the absence of her memories, in the absence of what made her who she was, Ophelia has chosen against a promise to herself. Without her memories, she had been rather and chosen emotion over logic, desire over future. Who was to blame? She was to blame, for thinking that everything would work out when the Sun God stripped her of herself, but she hated him for it. He had purposefully withheld this memory, took from her everything, and then abandoned her for it. Sadness turned to anger toward the Sun God so violently that tears burned from her eyes, and she yelled through gritted teeth.
Ophelia tore her body from the snow, and snorted a thick, harsh breath of frost, steam rising from the saline that mixed with the blood on her cheek. Nothing would change her fate now. She was used, abandoned, and tricked. Never again.
She clenched her jaw tightly and stepped tersely south, tail flashing angrily around her hocks. Already too many tears had been shed for the gods. Too many tears had been freed in self-pity. All that remained was rage. Ophelia's eyes sharpened, like a hawk awakened to the smell of prey. To the her home she would travel now; the Basin could wait.
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