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Mayhaps Circe was spending entirely too much time within the confines of her new home—but the sorceress supposed that it was a tad less green in these woods than she remembered, at least when compared to the verdant Foothills. Nonetheless, the quiet, the tranquility, the simplicity of the pines and the tawny-hued deciduous giants that dotted the forest served to calm the heated mare as she floated on a brisk trot through the Orangemoon shadows.
Circe’s recent encounter with the gruff, ornery stallion had rubbed her fur in the entirely wrong direction. She wasn’t full of wrath—though indeed, the sorceress was quite done with his presence and his person. Whatever his problem had been, Circe wanted nothing to do with the solution; he could stew in his own vulgar mud-bath for the rest of eternity and she shadowmere would be satisfied, thank you. She had wandered away from that offending meeting place—and when the borders came before her, the sorceress simply traveled through them, failing to remember a policy that restricted one from leaving the security of The Grey’s stronghold. Surely she would be entirely at the mercy of the dangers beyond, but if Circe couldn’t handle the straggler or the bandit on the highway, she supposed she didn’t need to hold the position of Executioner in a group of mercenaries.
Speaking of dangers…
A warm, cloying scent permeated the air, a scent Circe didn’t readily recognize. She slowed her pace, eventually digging her fore hooves into the dirt and grime as she halted unexpectedly, her head held erect and her ears open. Her nostrils flared as she took in the offending scent; the scent of a predator. She was accustomed to those savage canids that plagued the hillside of her own domain—those pesky creatures called wolves?—and while the metallic quality of this particular scent called to mind one of those beasts, it was also entirely different and alien to the sorceress. Had the shadowmere any hackles to raise, she would have raised them; her limbs still and her nerves clenched, Circe took stock of her surroundings, gazing about her person and trying to gauge the source of the offending ordor.
….*”Where am I?”*
The normally proud head was suddenly lowered in wariness as Circe heard the gentle murmur of another not too far away. Her leonine tail, that graceful appendage, lashed to-and-fro in alarm as her eyes caught the visage of strange creature indeed, lurking in the dewy shadows of a grove not too far away. This beast blended so well within the golden of the turning leaves, Circe had missed her outline before; now that she caught sight of the scrawny beast, the scent seemed to intensify, and within its depths Circe detected the odor of some long-dead creature. Circe focused her sight and observed the being, trying to gauge just what type of monster she was dealing with.
It seemed…like some sort of cat?
“….Are you in need?” Circe asked, her husky voice cautious as she addressed the lonely cat. Perhaps this was the height of folly for a grass-eater such as the shadowmere, but she had not been attacked yet; the cat seemed to docile and, indeed, too pitiful to certainly be a danger to the sorceress.
“I am only your enemy if you wish me to be,” Circe warned, her head lifting ever so slightly as she assessed the doleful blue eyes of the spotted feline.
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