The precise justifications for her presence here she had forgotten, as her thoughts were instead consumed by her being and this world around her: dark, brittle, and black, a complementary palette to her ponderous mood. And savage, she thinks, unbidden; there are signs of war here, of struggles and slaughter, slashed into the trunks of trees and seen in snapped branches. Who were they? Here and there she can discern the mark of a spiraled horn against wood, but sometimes the meaningless gouges could be bear, wolf or hawk-made for all she knew. Even Lilómiel had no smart-aleck answer for her; he, too, was silent, enraptured by the shadows.

The ocean was her home, but this was her heart painted onto a landscape.

Nymeria lengthens her stride, taking the well-trodden path through the woods. I should be afraid. Her own conceit would be her downfall; her chest was too full of air, her neck too arched. The confidence in her burly step would deliever her to her doom—because for all her self-carriage, there were things she could not battle, and beasts she could not defeat. Yes, humility was key to security, but she couldn't muster it, not here where she belonged, and thus vanity prevailed where common sense should take hold. It would be her doom.

The shadows unwind ahead, retreating against their masters to expose a something in a glade. Her ears prick, snapping to attention to gather the seeds of dubious sound.

Sounds of madness.

Against her audits the whispers surge, bouncing off drifts of snow and collecting to drip upon her eardrums. Eerie, isn't it? The way it falls and hisses, the murmur of an unknown voice, the sibilant and sinister curl of saliva and tongue-against-cheek. Forth she strains, tremulous in her tenuous efforts, ears pinned upon the origin of the sounds and eyes scanning for a sign. Lilómiel, cradled on top of her withers, rustles his wings, the papery sound thin and decaying against the forest's vastness. Concern precipitates through the membranes of their bond, worry unassuaged by Nymeria's palpitating curiosity. His talons hook tighter against Nym's taut flesh; their bite, their sting, forces her mind back towards their presently vulnerable state.

The filly breaks into a trot, knees rising high and hips swinging, intent and unswayed by her companion's increasingly vehement protests. She had to know. Whatever was there, in the forest, was a flavor of adventure she had yet to test.

And then the whispers transcend to a shout and Nymeria jerks as if a gun has been shot, heart banging against her ribs and the whites of her eyes gleaming in the darkness.

It was only a stallion.
Brush rustles and scrapes along her flanks as she approaches the strange unicorn from the forefront, Lilómiel springing from her withers into the forest canopy to observe from a safer distance. His wings, flaring and dark, fans her mane and stirs the miniscule hairs upon her face, momentarily obscuring the stranger.

The wolf halts.
"Fucking dare who?"