She remembers the invasion, vaguely. She remembers her evening bath being disrupted far more than she remembers the reason behind the invasion, however. Certainly, she does not remember Arah. After all, she barely recognized her own Czarina from the time when the Cadaverous recently appeared in the Threshold. At the time, she hadn’t cared for herd politics, hadn’t cared who ruled the Falls so long as she was allowed to stay and live in the pools as she felt inclined to do.

Truthfully, she still doesn’t entirely care. It’s only by sheer willpower that she has begun to pay attention to these things, realizing that these things that once meant nothing to her were now her own means to becoming something more than a meager, mortal equine. Helovia had stolen her powers first, and bit by bit, had stolen everything she once was. To live here meant becoming someone else entirely, a process that never seemed get easier for her.

Arah might be sadly disappointed to find that the Storyteller of the Falls had very few stories. She had some, having been around this place for a while now. But so much of her early years had been spent wallowing in self-pity that she hadn’t paid attention to the things that might help her now. She found herself looking for reminders, for every bit of information, so much of which she probably should have known. Ah, but this is what she gets for not paying attention then.

The call finds her easily enough. There’s no shelter in the Falls during Frostfall, and therefore, no barrier to the sounds of a stranger on their border either. She hated Frostfall with a vengeance, often leaving if only to seek shelter in some forest or at least, if she was going to freeze, to do so on the beach by the ocean. It’s not like she grew a warm, fuzzy coat with her strange, wet-seal coat. Though she was fuzzier than she used to get.

Slowly, she makes her way through the snow, not in a rush but at least, answering the call without too much delay. It’s not long before the pearl-colored mare with antlers sprouting from her head and a griffin curled on her back. As far as Helovia goes, the mare was rather plain, though beautiful. Syrena was mostly gray, as usual, though her legs swirled with greens and blues and purples where they plowed through the snow. “Hello, I’m Syrena. Can I help you?” Her voice is deadpan as always, though the sound of it is like a lullaby. A remnant from her days as a siren, from the songs she used to sing. Her face, like her voice, is impassive, though none of it seems unfriendly. Rather, she simply knows no other way. What point is there to pretty smiles when she has no use for victims anymore?


les words "chat chat"

Syrena

let the water take me