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How long the shadowmere had been in their company was impossible to determine; Circe herself was unaware of the exact moment their presence had broken through the drifting chill of the Threshold. The mare had been wandering, somber and reserved in her countenance, her mind endeavoring to stave off the weight and pull of her own despair, yet also beckoned and beguiled by it as well. She had taken to walking and wandering different places, leaving behind the frosty fields of her homeland—the scene was just too shameful and painful for the sorceress to face, as though it were the scene of some gruesome, despicable crime she had been inadvertently a part of. It was an unclean stain in her memory—and she did wish to be rid of it.
What was more, Circe knew she had duties to attend to. A threat had blossomed in her leave of absence—she dully remembered the supposed “threat” of the assassins, her mouth curling into a smirk as she recalled the ridiculousness of the situation. What could such a small, undisciplined band of cowards wish to accomplish, aside from humiliation and possible execution? Whatever the idleness of the threat, however, Circe knew it was a threat nonetheless, and so she strove to complete the assignments that had been set out for her. In all honesty, the shadowmere worked far harder than the call to arms asked for—Circe doubt if she was truly needed to patrol the Threshold for potential hopefuls and to debunk the threat of those childishly incompetent cutthroats. But she must move herself. She must do something instead of rest—she could not afford herself a moment to think about her surroundings, the darkness that threatened to engulf her. Circe must be a warrior.
For what else could she be?
And so here she was, startled out of her sinister reverie as voices floated over the rain-soaked mists. The shadowmere cocked an ear, listening forward in reluctant curiosity; the flow of the conversation seemed familiar to the executioner. Her smirk acquiring a bitter twist, Circe realized one of the voices belonged to a female similar to herself, a wandering soul wishing to know about this strange land and request a place within it. An awkward discontent began to unravel within her the longer Circe listened; the second speaker, and innocent no doubt, was doing an absolutely terrible job of explaining the land. The poor soul seemed so fresh and young—sweet, in a way. Circe supposed such a sweetness would be refreshing, but it was not. No, for now, it was only irritating in an inexplicable way.
*“I don’t know much about those in the east sorry.”*
“I do,” Circe spoke suddenly, husky notes of velvet flowing from her mouth—her words weren’t as vibrant as before, but they carried far nonetheless. Circe stepped from the shadows of the sodden forest, her gait sure and her head held high as she surveyed the owner of the voices—a curious young girl with a sloppy sort of simper to her demeanor, and a gangling, crème-colored thing that spoke with far more elegance than her conformation suggested. Circe eyed both of them carefully for a span of heartbeats—then her mouth formed a slight smirk, her clouded eyes glinting with a hint of mischievous purpose. “I am from the east,” she said formally, inclining her head toward the crème female, “It is there that the stronghold for my herd, the Grey, lies….it’s not so far from here, if you wish for brief respite from this unforgiving weather.” Her eyes lingered on the amber irises of the unsightly fae before shifting her gaze to the bumbling youth of charm.
*“But the north…They are a foul lot, bloodthirsty and cruel. I would warn you against visiting the racist folk of the Basin- or stumbling in that direction.”
“Indeed,” she agreed, dipping her head a second time. Though Circe herself suffered no threat, it was surely unwise for an Equine to wander to those cursed, frozen lands...she knew her ma--General had gone there not to long before….certain events… Circe closed her eyes briefly, allowing the train of her thoughts to cleanse themselves from these dangerous paths. She didn’t want to break down in front of these curious strangers. She must stand strong.
“As for magic…” Circe said, her voice trailing off and her smirk becoming quite sinister; she grasped hold of her black magic, beguiling the Earth Force to reach upward and latch onto several limbs that hang in a circular pattern around them. With several sharp snaps! and retorts, Circe willed gravity to yank the limbs down, forcing them to crack from their trees and splash into mud and puddles caused by the sky’s tears. Circe’s tail weaved idly from side to side—how was that for magic?
“Magic exists everywhere in this land,” she explained, her intuitive gaze coming back to the homely female with a quicker eye than might befit her comely appearance, “and there are those who wield it. Some beg the Gods for their abilities, while others, like myself, are born with it. Power inevitably will come with these abilities….if power is what you prefer.” She eyed the female briefly before moving on, “However, there are many more who find power without being blessed with the arts of the ephemeral. It’s all subjective to will; heart recognizes heart.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in, her tail continuing to weave behind her as an adder might when pursuing their prey. There was no way of knowing the slyness behind the crème mare’s charade of indigence; there was no way of recognizing the greed behind her inquiries for power. Still, Circe stood vigilant, her head high and her eyes warily scanning both mares with a mix of steely resolve and cordial, pleasant curiosity.
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