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The cold was biting, surely—but Circe didn’t feel it seep into her bones like it usually did, standing here listening to this mare name herself in the shadowmere’s midst. A fighter, she called herself—and a fighter she appeared to be, with her eyes sly and calculating, flitting about the place in an organized sort of flurry. Circe knew the look of one who scrapped for survival, and this mare named Cthulhu fit the part down to the tiniest detail.
Cthulhu. Circe regarded the name with another blip of amusement, but this was a personal observation, an pleasure that did not reveal itself in the light of her eye or the movement of her weaving tail. However, it seemed that fate paid attention to her wayward thoughts—for out of the shadow of the forest came a most familiar bundle of brown fur and powerful sinew: Eytan. Circe looked down upon the bear as it settled itself in front of her, her kind smile ever growing as she regarded the ursine. Surely it could mean only one thing—that somewhere near the shadows breathed and beat with the rhythm of its own heart; the Dark Lady was somewhere near, perhaps watching them at this moment. Circe’s eyes didn’t search for her, however. No, they remain fixed upon the fighter before her, knowing that the regard of shadows around them could put Cthulhu even more on edge than she was already. Circe didn’t wish to inflict fear upon her acquaintance …no, the shadowmere wished to hear more from her curious friend, for her words were proving to be intriguing.
Circe bent to rest her muzzle upon the brow of the bear in greeting, if he allowed it; she then noted the agitation in Cthulhu’s demeanor at the presence of the bear. “He is no enemy to us,” she murmured, attempting to mollify the mare’s instinctual fear. Of course, Etyan could prove to be a dangerous adversary indeed if the mares decided to goad him into such extremes—but that was a basic understanding that Circe assumed the nomad understood quite well. One did not survive long in the wilds without knowing these fundamental matters.
Raising her head back to its customary height, Circe regarded her companion for another span of heartbeats with an inscrutable gaze—she noted the way Cthulhu’s eyes flicked to her horn every few moments—and she broke into an inquiry. “I wonder,” Circe began, her curious thoughts snaking the throaty alto of her voice, “You enter this strange place a nomad—but do you intend to remain so? I have no doubt you are a strong mare, but even the strongest find greater than their share of trouble on this island of insanity when they choose to walk the path alone.” It wasn’t quite a threat—there was no reason to threaten this mare. No, these were true words that Circe spoke, words of caution and a narrative of those misshapen souls that dared wander this place with proud, solitary hearts. “However….there are ways to ease the pressure of survival, persons who would offer protection and a shield to cover your back, if you would allow them.”
She paused, the tip of her tail curling tightly once. “I would offer my own shield,” came the proposition. Her curiosity peaked, and though she wore a faint smirk upon her lips, her eyes gazed with serious intensity towards Cthulhu, appreciating what she saw-- a mare in charge of her life, capable of taking care of herself -- and finding she wouldn’t mind this mare as a shield-sister, and knowing she’d be a worthy ally and adversary if she chose the path of seclusion. Only fate would know the outcome.
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Hopes up high and your head down low - open
