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CIRCE The task was done, the mission complete, the subjects delivered to their rightful domain. It swelled Circe’s spirit to know she was successful in getting Chemical away from her captors; the hope that her ploy was successful raged in her veins, for she did not want the Assassins coming to call on the borderlands next. If all went according to plan, Chemical would be able to sway her countrymen from becoming an immediate adversary for the Grey—but Circe was not a pretentious mare. She knew the Grey were able to crush such a small posse of potential amateurs, and that they would crush them if they came to cross the same path. With this plot, Circe hoped that her family would have no reason to decimate the tiny band. Making her way back to the verdant hills, the shadowmere decided to quickly sweep through the Threshold once, an effective method of patrolling the southern border and keeping an eye out for brewing trouble. Yet all the while her eye roved and wandered, her heart quaked with the image of Chemical’s young foalings. There was no denying it; Circe had been affected by the presence of two, tiny bodies that hadn’t existed when first she laid eyes on the black Pegasus mare. Their hearts beating so new, their limbs splayed here and there in their awkward ploy for freedom—all of it charmed the Executioner with something painful, until the sorceress melted around her fetlocks in adoration and…..envy. The shadowy mare snorted—there was no being a pussy about it. The twins stirred something within her, the desires she had stuffed into a secret place where pain and regret often dwelled….but the spring time air decided to coax it from its slumber. Archibald had better not get himself killed, she mused dryly. Her thoughts were interrupted, however; it seemed as though her foray into the Threshold would not be a wasted effort. Head held high and ears perked forward in alert, Circe caught the poignant scent of stallion, even as a silvery apparition ran ‘twixt the looming trees of the black, moonlit forest. Circe cocked a brow, finding her wayword thoughts to be of a most rambunctious, if not amusing, nature. Not bad, she decided, watching him move with effortless grace between the ancient trunks, he’s still nothing more than a whisper of man, though. I could break him accidently. Her thoughts stayed her own however, and when she called to the spirit stallion it was with an impartial, specialized lilt to her tone. “Shadows walk in the moonlight,” she warned, coming as close as the stallion dared have her come, “I trust you have a destination? Good fortune does not greet the aimless wanderer in this place.” |
