Ophelia took a detour through the Threshold on her way North to visit Kaj and Archibald. She would be dutiful to her new herd and her new life. For the first time in a very long time, she would make a sincere and honest effort, for Torleik. The motivation she felt had drifted from time to time, but no desire was stronger than love. With such a strange and foreign heartbeat in her chest, she succumbed to its sway, the demon inside settling back down after her admittedly bitter outburst in the Aurora Basin. Deimos’ words happened to pluck a particular string, one that rang as far back as her father, and she grimaced tightly. She and her sister had won the Foothills, and there, standing, he had watched and turned his back. Words later exchanged told her his true feelings, stating his disappointment with her choices.

Then, she had been crushed, a fissure in her heart mended with callousness and anger. The sore behind that crack had festered and gone black, turning to emotional infection that oozed at any brushing against her insecurities. Ophelia never claimed to be perfect; she was far from it, but her history was very long, and she never forgot. She had journeyed from Isilme as a child, carrying her sister’s broken weight. Together, she had watched the empires of Helovia rise and fall, and she had partaken in a few of those.

A heavy sigh brushed past parted lips, stepping beneath a sea of fiery colors as the trees gave their last to the coming winter. She felt the chill of the breeze already and welcomed the advent of snow, finding comfort in the white, fluffy flakes that would fall and cover the land in a blanket. Strange, dual colored eyes walked through present and past, her memories nearly as clear as reality, and she inhaled the musky, masculine scent of two others in the distance. The pheromones were almost choking now that she was used to just one scent of Torleik, but she trudged on ahead regardless, not afraid of stallions and their often egotistical and sexist ways.

Besides, she had bigger issues to worry about, and her mind was full of questions and pains – such as Roskuld walking away after her confession. She would never admit how deeply that injured her, but the pain was there and the demon inside was already waiting to consume it as fuel for her rage.

The pair came into sight – one she recognized and one she did not. Thor, a stallion denied leadership (but who had been lead before), was talking to a black warrior with many horns. He was intriguing to say the least, foreigners generally were, and she narrowed her gaze with curious scrutiny. He was walking like a man defeated, or, perhaps, just lost in his own thoughts. She understood that feeling, and she came to pause next to Thor. Ophelia was no longer a leader, and perhaps, she thought, they were equals. She wondered how much ill will he harbored toward her, but it would do little good to dwell on such matters.

“I too am from the World’s Edge,” she offered quietly, looking up at Thor’s hulking size. Both stallions eclipsed her slender, lithe frame, but she was unperturbed. “Leadership has been changing here, and a warrior would be welcome.” She turned her head to the side, the gesture both mad and innocent at once. “Where do you come from?”



@[Narcissus]