As hard as she tried to keep thoughts of the FrostHeart from invading, they simply would not stay out of her mind. And Valentine didn't help. Her gaze roved over the nearby herd, each light colored pelt catching her eye for a moment before she determined that it was not her daughter or her ex-lover. A silly thing to do, seeing as she hadn't been blessed - a mental laugh - with their presence for several days. Sno she had seen briefly after the invasion, as they watched Mauja's pet killed and reborn. And the king she had followed, to rally around him alongside the rest of the herd. But since then, she hadn't seen hide nor tail of either. Something that she was both thankful for and worried about. So she tried not to dwell on it.

"A daughter." Clearly, she had surprised him. Well, that was predictable, given that she wasn't really the matronly type. "How lovely she must be, if she looks like her mother." Amber gaze swivelled suddenly to meet Valentine's eyes. Emotionless, a small sneer crossed her maw. "She inherited very little from me other than a very stubborn streak." The laugh that followed was hollow. Sno most definitely looked like her father, and perhaps it was better that way. The shadow-mare had always been ridiculed for her plain looks; even outside of her color, her body was just not interesting. She did not have the petite, dished look of an Arabian, nor had she the heavyset muscle of a draft. She was nothing, and she was everything. She hated it.

And yet a small voice piped up from the back of her mind, breaking through the bitterness: he complimented you. She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable, and then back to him again. This time her manner was less abrasive. She would not apologize, the shift in attitude being the closest she would come to such. "I'm sure I can learn to fight, and I will train myself to be a great warrior, so that we can defeat those damned Qian." A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips; his earnest words were amusing in a most pleasing way. She nudged her muzzle against his shoulder gently, a playful tone returning to her. "It takes much hard work and perseverance to become a great warrior," she informed him. "I will train you, but in the meantime, we'd best find something more to your liking."

A pause, and then: "You know, there is something different about you. It's not bad either." It was an absent-minded statement, one that was almost more thought than speech. Had she not been paying attention, she might have missed it or brushed it aside, much as she had various suitors over the years. But she was paying attention, and she did not miss it. She looked at him levelly, her eyes thoughtful, but betraying no emotion. Truth be told, she didn't know how to respond to his words. She was different, and it was bad. Or at least, that's what others thought, that's what she wanted them to believe. Should she be upset that Valentine did not?

[W/C | 527]

A chilly winds blew at their backs, worse now that they had risen and separated. What a gods-forsaken land, the shadow-mare thought bitterly. Her banner drifted gently, multicolored feathers twirling lazily. A few of the equine teeth embedded in her mane clicked against one another. The effect was an eerie mixture of clicks and clacks. Her tail had none of these ornamentations and, lacking as such, was silent as it licked her hocks. Her horn, gnarled as it was, stood proudly against the snowy terrain, the red rune at its base seeming to glow faintly in the soft winter light. It was a strange appearance for her; she seemed ethereal, but not in the fairy tale way of her species. Instead, she seemed a strange cross between light and dark, good and evil, princesses and ghouls. How fitting.

Still, she did not acknowledge his comment. Everything about her was different, she knew this all too well. Her family had never let her forget it, blessed as they were with tinges of red decorating their banners, framing their proud heads held so high, their perfect horns pointed to the sky. Jealousy had blossomed in her at an early age. Never vain, she settled instead for more material additions to her looks. They had given her a beauty - no, not a beauty, never a beauty - a quality all her own. With this, she was content.

"We shall spar, my darling," she agreed. Her addition of 'my' was more a word of possession than true feeling. He had somehow, without even trying, gained the jackal's trust. As such, he was now hers, more so than she could ever say of any who claimed to love her. Even the FrostHeart was not hers, she could never, would never claim him. But Valentine, her king of hearts, her follower, her recruit, he was hers, all hers. "We shall meet, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the following day, when the sun is high in the sky on one of the plains to the east. The snow is light there."

[W/C | 343]