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CIRCE It didnt' seem so long ago that Circe was in this very state--but with a jolt, the shadowmere realized it was an entire year since she had stalked these very fields in high dudgeon, just as riled as she was then with the pooling magma of anger that threatened to spill over the lip of her cauldron. The dewy springtime air could do nothing to calm her vitriol; the balmy winds and the plush, luscious grass underneath her hooves failed to soothe the raging spirit within the dark Executioner. The deed with Chemical was done, and the black Pegasus and her children were safe from harm; there was no more for the shadowmere to do save protect the borders of her herd. No matter how her bones and body ached for the rumble of the battle drums, the borders remained quiet and peaceful, content with the mockery of their sentinel’s unrest. There would be no need for the shadowmere to fight today. There was never a need. The sun still refused to rear its radiant head, and the night continued to draw on—but a curious sensation returned to the shadowmere, and she realized her mastery over the black magic she wielded returned to her hoof-tips. Circe hadn’t realized she had lost it, so overcome with depression as she was; but now that the sensation of earth and weight began to swim within her blood once again, Circe recognized that she had endured the whole of Frostfall without her precious sorcery. It could’ve raised her spirits to know she was whole again, she could’ve wondered whether to test it on some misbegotten boulder that littered the dark, star-lighted hills. None of these things occurred; in fact, the shadowmere only wondered if the absence of her magic was the cause for her waste. Was I not satisfactory? Was I not ready for the test of war? she often wondered, a sour, bitter note in her voice, a twisted ridicule of the returning soldiers when one considered the fact that they had lost. They had lost! The wandering, suckling babes had been chosen to bear the battle, and they had lost regardless of whatever confidence they were able to garner from the Dauntless and the Dark Lady. Admittedly, they had somehow garnered victories in their own battles, even as the war was lost. Circe had no taste for the unicorns of the North; she couldn’t care less that they had spinelessly crumbled underneath the eccentricity of the Edge horses. Perhaps the addition of the shadowmere wouldn’t have tilted the scale in the favor for the allied forces; she acknowledged this. It didn’t stop the dark mare from pacing her home, from trudging the shadowed valleys that glistened with dew; it didn’t stop her from tossing her head, snorting into the night with a tail that twisted and lashed behind her, an adder with fangs ready to strike; it didn’t hold back the rumbling, bellowing neigh that escaped her maw, a whinny of frustration that rolled over the hills, beckoning her own countrymen to experience a true fight. Come, it said,Fight me, stop wasting me! [Opening Post Setting: A shallow valley in the Foothills, with a few deciduous trees in the belly of it. Mild night with some dew and a few muddy patches. Clear sky; stars and half-moon are visible. Magic determined by SWP. Companions are ALLOWED. 3 Attack Posts and 1 Closing Defence.] |
