Ulterior motives. Funny things, those. Hemlock doesn't really grasp the concept of them, but if she did, she wouldn't have any; in fact, she would probably dislike them. Despise, even.

Hemlock doesn't have a whole log going on upstairs, never has, so she might begrudge someone keen enough, sharp enough, to twist the minds of others like that, as the dull lambs begrudge the wolves. And this poor mare is such a dull little lamb.

She heard him coming, and reminded herself not to give him the impression -- or the satisfaction --that he had startled her, schooling her face into a neutral expression as a black leg disturbed the water before her, the ripples of which were quickly washed away by the current. A carefully-controlled lift of her narrow head, and she was staring at the stallion.

He could have been her twin.

No, Hemlock scolded herself mildly, his head was far too grotesquely-shaped, his eyes an ugly, livid shade of blue to her warm gold. And that nose. Horrendous. Their forms mirrored each other to near perfection, hwever, black and sleek, like asps, long of rib and limb. His neck, she appraised with some grudging appreciation, was not as high set as hers, but it was an attractive black arch, crowning between his narrow shoulders. He might have been good-looking, if not for that awful head of his.

"I've travelled a while, I'll grant, so I would assume I am lost." She hummed, voice as dry as bones, but collected. It was important to present oneself cooly, after all. Even if her heart was beating against her ribcage frantically. She wasn't sure what to do in this strange place, with this strange horse who was her ugly twin, and anxiety ran rampant through her. Outwardly, she was as cold as death, and as still as, as she stood, regarding the black stallion.

Hemlock felt the words bubbling at the back of her throat, threatening to break her image of calm composure, but she was helpless to stop them:

"You know, if you had some white on your nose, maybe it wouldn't look so awful." She blurted the thought, her tail moving twitching slightly against her hocks. She didn't have the presence of mind to look apologetic.

Surreptitiously, she glanced down at her injured leg, noting with approval that it was no longer bleeding. She hated blood.

It was just so unsightly.



let me be your ruler
you can call me queen bee