Out of the corner of the steel-blue eye, the shadowmere could see the young bodies of her sons amble about through the thick, grassy knoll that blanketed this mountaintop. Indeed, it had excited Circe to stumble upon this spot, where the air was thin and the sun didn’t smite the land so harshly. She allowed her sons to frolic as they wished while she herself steadily mowed the area in front of her, reveling in the sweetness of the clover, doing her best to push away the growing tension and anxiety in her breast.

The reason for her unease was simple: Archibald was still gone. Circe was not a clingy mare, and she supposed that, if they decided to split ways, her soul would not be unduly tarnished; she had been born without him, and she would certainly die without him, so what was the point of caging an unwilling stallion? No, there was no insecurity in their bond, for it was strong; the anxiousness stemmed from the destination of his travels, the Foothills. Every time the place decided to spring into Circe’s mind, her breast tangled in a mixture of lingering emotions: regret, nostalgia, suffocating sorrow, a warming sensation of familiarity. Chief among them, however, was a bitter, searing hatred for the Spy who resided in their ranks. Phaedra.

Even now, as Circe peacefully grazed upon sweetened grass in the gentle sunlight, her ire rose in her throat—the grass in her mouth turned to ash. With a snort and a lash of her whip-like tail, Circe tried to shake the memory of the offensive jezebel from her mind, but the stain had been laid well and truly on her psyche. She stomped her hoof. Archibald, return soon, she pleaded angrily in her mind, looking forward to the time in the near future where she didn’t have to think about the Hilly Hell wherein the tempting succubus of shame and idiocy lived.


@[Ampere]



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Many things happened at once for the shadowmere; her ear cocked and her head jerked away from the succulent flora. In the corner of her eye still played her sons—but more than that, a large, somewhat gangly-looking shadow seemed to emerge from the very ground and accelerate for her children, who had not noticed anything amiss.

Circe was moving before she was even sure of what it was; did it matter? It was a strange thing, and it came for her sons, and the motherly obsession that fevered her soul pitched about, turbulent in her frenzy to protect her children. Words couldn’t escape her maw in her haste; it was a deep, gut-shaking whinny that reached her sons, who knew to answer such a call without challenge. Come here, it said, come here. As her sons hastened to obey her and flee into her waking shadow, Circe trotted in between her boys and whatever this…thing was that approached.

Circe snorted, raising her head some as she stood in front of her sons. Not a thing. A pegasus--more accurately a rather alarming Pegasus mare who stood quite a few inches smaller than the shadowmere herself. Eyes cast downward somewhat, Circe appraised the mare, fighting back a shameful surge of irritation at the sight. I know her not, she compromised with herself, she may be a friend or a foe, I know her not. Regardless, there lingered a smoky cloud of dislike, most likely residue from her heated thoughts toward Phaedra. Circe could not help it, as rational as her mind worked; with an effort, she eased the hardened tension in her limbs, though in no way did she imply moving away from her sons.

“Can I help you?” she asked, and the shadowmere was proud of the casual tone that commanded her husky voice, belaying the conflicted judgments that may lay behind her eyes. Friend or foe, it was Circe’s business to what the hell anyone wanted with her children.





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Circe could feel the lingering presence of her sons behind her, and knew they wondered at their mother’s rather strange, abrupt behavior. For the time being, she didn’t care; the shadowmere was pulled to the Pegasus’ answer to her question. Guarded eyes of blue-steel regarded the tiny black-and-blue mare; Circe’s expression remained impassive as she processed the words that floated to her on the soft winds of the skyward meadow.

Slowly, a brow lifted as her eyes remained on the Pegasus, who called herself Ampere. “Circe,” she replied, prompted to civility as she continued to observe the smaller creature. Ampere…wanted to play a game? Circe sized her up; Ampere was short, yes, but the fullness of her curves and the musculature in her chest and thigh indicated womanhood. The paradox tickled something in Circe’s mind, for although it seemed unlikely that an adult would be as fully fascinated with games as Ampere claimed to be, nevertheless Circe knew the possibilities with a particular intimacy. The shadowmere herself had been hard pressed to grow up; even as a young woman she had retained many of the mannerisms and tendencies of an adolescent, and it wasn’t until her own mother’s betrayal that she finally sobered up, becoming acquainted with the harshness of life’s tribulations. As such, she fully understood and believed Ampere when the black Pegasus had confessed to searching for a means of play.

However.

The motherly obsession that had compelled Circe to charge in front of her sons and out of harm’s way now shook its head with suspicion, glaring upon Ampere with a skeptical light. “What game?” came the dry inquiry, cutting across the useless blather that followed the explanation, her brow still arched even as her body began to relax by a few more degrees. “Play it with me first.” The authorative tone was perhaps a little misplaced with the frivolous nature of the request, yet Circe firmly and shamelessly stood her ground. Ampere was still a stranger—a blunt, tiny little stranger it was sure, but a stranger all the same—and just as Circe had tasted the apples in order to protect her sons, she now insisted on playing with this stranger before she got any closer to her precious children.




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Viginlantes and Criminals, hmm?

Circe watched with impassive eyes as Ampere explained her idea for a game; as the words rolled off the Pegasus mare’s tongue, the shadowmere couldn’t help but lift her brow once more, her lips gnawing about, mouthing the phrase “hoof-full of justice”. To her sons? This blue dame wanted to administer a coup-de-grace of righteousness to her children?. Admittedly, the words stirred something humorous in Circe’s breast, but all the stricken cords weren’t ones of amity. Indeed, some betraying piece of the dark mare’s mind harkened back to her own “hoof-ful of justice”, so to speak—namely, a flying, wayward kick of anger, directed for the brittle breast of a near casualty of convergent passions. Circe pushed this out of her mind—or attempted to, at least. It was not the moment to reflect on unfortunate incidences; it was time for play.

Apparently.

“I’m the criminal, I presume?” Circe wondered aloud, her voice perhaps a little more forceful than necessary, though her tail behind her curled slightly, ivory plum twitching to-and fro in preparation of this “game” of theirs. The honest truth was that Circe was a little too privy to the life of a lawless nomad—even her attempts in creating a new life in this strange, twisted land had resulted in her taking up the mantle of her former life. A smirk began to lift the edges of her mouth as Ampere asked if she knew what entailed.

“I do,” she stated simply; her tail was a living thing, lashing about from place to place, her legs and bones eager to begin the romp. The words You’ll never take me alive, bitch! sprung upon Circe’s tongue, but after a moment’s consideration the shadowmere decided against hard swearing around the virgin ears of her young ones. As such, her taunt was relatively simple: “You’ll never catch me.”

And she stood there, waiting for Ampere’s move.




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