Kaj and Archibald wanted horses to start stepping up to their titles.

Nymeria couldn’t blame them. The Hidden Falls, peaceful as it was, had a sort of stagnancy to it that was hard to ignore—the kind that made danger seem laughably far away and dulled even the sharpest warriors. It might’ve been the constant rainbows, or the low thunder of the falls, or something else entirely; but whatever the case, the call to arms provided Nymeria the perfect opportunity to prove her dedication to the herd.

And that was before the patrolling.

When she’d been assigned to a taskforce with Knox, she’d been a touch surprised. As far as she was aware, this winter would be the first time spies (or illusors, as the Falls called them) would be expected to participate in a job that required practically no brain and certainly little skill.  It felt like a spectacular waste of resources.

(But who was she to complain?) (And thus, she remained quiet and… opportunistic.)

It was Lilómiel who first noticed the blood on the air.

It was Nymeria who decided they’d follow it.

Snow crunched beneath her hooves as she followed her dragon. The black coasted ahead—wings beating once every so often—jaws languidly parted, tail feathers occasionally twitching to make a course adjustment. Nym didn’t question his tracking, instead flaring her nostrils and drinking in the ripening, painfully familiar scent. It was strange to think that that smell—all coarse iron—had once been a constant source of anxiety for her.

She didn’t often think about how having a herd had changed her. For a long time, she’d thought the Falls had done nothing for her. (She’d come to realize she was painfully wrong about that.)

The dense pines began to thin, and the companions broke free into the Thistle Meadow.

Was it wrong to say she was disappointed by the scene of the crime? Nymeria had been hoping for a murder—for a bloodbath!—or even an agonizing, everything’s-gone-wrong birth. Those would’ve been stories worth sharing, she thought (and for a moment a memory of flame and screams interrupted her thinking), information worth telling. And instead she had nothing: nothing but a stallion and his companion, a cub (a charlatan!) playing with bones.

Lilómiel hissed, banking back towards her. We could mug them.

I don’t think that’d go over well.

“Hello!” Nymeria called, striking out towards the stranger. There was no sign of her dismay—instead a merry smile lit up her face, and her buxom hips swung in a flirtatiously artistic pattern. He was remarkably handsome, with his spots and his stripes and his wild eyes—and she thought she’d spotted something shiny on him.

Something pointy, like her brother’s dagger.  

She was magnetic—and the stallion, prey to her whims, fell in closer, drawn towards the scintillating shifts of her hips and the smile painted across her lips. As he came she let still her flirtatious movements, instead carrying the momentum of her friendliness into her gaze flickering across Oultik's fletched rump and unnerving eyes and wickedly curving horns. She ogled, she admired, with open regard (all with a faint sense of distaste in her thoughts, though it did not show on her face); and then her eyes, after a slow and luxurious crawl over his body, came to settle on the deep and blank blues of his scrutiny.

Red eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, amber eyes—she'd seen it all before. But never had she seen eyes without any pupils.

He spoke aloud to the cub scampering beneath him, words of fear and dishonor. Nymeria let her brows pinch together in a humbling portrait of pondering. She wondered if the stallion said such things for her benefit—if he sought to impress her with his speech's archaic and somewhat bland nature. It was only when she caught the dullness veiling the former acuity of his eyes and the faint, vexing twitch to his brow that she found herself deciphering his worry for his companion. (Perhaps this show was not meant for her after all. It seemed to be about the cub after all.)

Lilómiel, with a mocking chirp, circled down to perch upon Nymeria's shoulders.

The stallion lowered his head, sunlight flashing on his horns, lips shaping words she could not quite have the heart to intrude upon. Instead she waited, and annotated her previous thoughts.

At last the stallion turned to face her. Those with might should not scavenge, he told her—a polite albeit unexpected statement. It revealed more of him than, perhaps, he realized; or perhaps the statement was calculated, a veiled prod at her own nature. Nymeria's brows arched upwards thoughtfully (in a delicate manoeuvre of her own), a slightly wolfish smile hovering about her ashen lips. Once again she made adjustments to the shape of the man before her, but she did not offer him an explanation. Instead she waited, and for her patience she was rewarded with his name and title.

The wolf cleared her throat, swishing her tail across her flanks.  "I'm Nymeria, of the Hidden Falls," she declared, and she took a step closer to the stranger. Her eyes, ruby red and shrouded with the shadows cast by her long lashes, twinkled with mischievousness. "So, are you a scavenger or a hunter?"

Was he laughing at her? There was certainly a sparkle in his eyes. She bristled—her features tightened, her mouth slipped into a knife-edge smile—and then she drew back, shoving her emotions back within her shell. The stallion nudged the lion away from his foot; snow rustled and shuddered beneath his touch as he prowled towards her.

She is hit with revulsion, pummelled by disgust.

Once more her smile flickers, this time callous and sinuous, hungry and sexual. Her emotions have no place on her face; they are bottled and tucked away, where they will not interfere with her plans. So when he (handsome and dark and friendly) cuts the distance between them and purrs growls asks her questions in tone of command, she shifts forward, angling herself towards him in a show of attraction. "You're my prey," she breathes, stepping forward to meet him. Teeth brush over forehead, shifting the tangled locks, correcting their fall; she is irritated (my hair is perfect the way it is) but she says and shows nothing.

The stallion pulled away, except she wouldn't let him.

As he steps back she creeps forward, hips swaying—sensual, felid, predatory. There's no explanation or precedent for this side of her—she acts only on instinct, marching on despite her decided unhappiness. Now their interactions are resolving themselves into a test. What could she get away with? What could she force him to do?

Lilómiel quietly asks her to stop. (You don't want this.)

Volterra wants to have sex constantly. Why shouldn't I find out what's so great about it?

The stallion turns to her, grievous and solemn. Confessions are on his lips. She swallows them, devours them, and they taste like wine. "You don't have to be alone," she tells him. This time she isn't quite so desperate in her advance. There's a genuine understanding in her voice; she, too, has often felt alone. And more and more often she has begun to realize others share in that damning feeling. "I'm here for you if you ever need me... but first I need a name."