Look, Lilómiel commands; Nymeria's scarlet eyes shift from the stallion's face to the vulpine creatures beside him. One is clearly a fox (soft, small, and red) but the other is dust-colored and four-tailed; it remains her of her own departed mother's Mongrel. It would be a happy topic of conversation (oh! My mother had a companion just like that!) but instead Nymeria chooses to twist her mouth into a tiny, cryptic smile, evocative in the subtle shifts of her face. She is alluring, incomprehensible: her every move a calculated strike aimed to capture if not the stallion's friendship then at least his curiosity.

(He is born here as well.)
Nymeria searches him and finds him lacking. There is no majesty to him, no confidence; he is strangely diminutive (humble?) He is not like Abraham (wall of stone white marble thorns weaving around her legs) nor like Volterra. For that she is glad. She has had enough of the warlords, and she's more than ready for... him.

Now I have lost my way, Sacre tells her; Nym bites back on a laugh. Lost ways? Wasn't she all too familiar with that—with the emptiness of purpose and hollowness of soul? Strange, wasn't it, how it had been that feeling that had given her one of the happiest memories in her life? Själ—Själ—it was then that she came, knocking away the Volterra and the Abraham and the Reginald. In her mind's eye Själ was staring out over gray water, Själ was seething and raging. Their time together... it had been a strange time, but hadn't they made a promise then? Everyone deserves a friend. Nymeria glances over the stallion once more before turning her own gaze away, an artistic show of long-buried shame. She wonders if she is blinded by her prejudice, if there was something more to this stallion than she realized.

What if his face was as deceptive as her own?
Sacred.

The wolf looks at him again. Her mouth softens; her eyes gleam with a mischievous light (look at her! Masterful in her manipulation and expression and execution! Wouldn't Mother be proud?) "I don't know the way better than you do," she tells him, honest and earnest. "... but I promise you we can find it." Bold words. An empty promise if there ever was one—how could she ever promise what he wanted? What she wanted? And yet—despite herself... she hoped beyond hope.

Something had to fill this void inside herself.

The snow falls slowly, but it is heavier now then it was even a moment ago. Stray white flakes catch in her curls, line the hollow of her spine; she steps forward, her step surprisingly light. She does not sway nor swing. Instead she approaches him straight as an arrow, furiously and righteously confident, head high and smile sardonic tantalizing. Then another step (close the space between us) and Sacre's face takes up the whole of her world.

"Together?"
Her breath clouds in the cold air.

Nymeria