CASSIUS❃


A raucous laughter springs from Cassius’ chest, when the crimson and ebon stallion responds likewise. Carefree, as it were – compared to the previous tension that had swelled within him. It is with a breath of fresh air, that he nodded with an amused voice.

“Sacre of the Threshold.”

His gaze inevitably follows the appearance of the foxes. Gleaming wildly despite the presence of the mists. Tilting his head in a most curious pose. “Oh – not at all! I’m afraid I’m not aware of what they are… Foxes, I assume. But one of them has more than one tail…?” He frowns, wondering if his eyes are playing tricks.

As Sacre sends his fox to fetch for one of those he speaks of, he listens with a soft smile. Shaking his head with the mentions of the Riftian Gods. “No. I… I was castaway in another land.” His brows furrow, more so in concern as his acquaintances features break with – fear, hurt? In either case, it appears as if a moment of hesitancy takes his fellow. Cassius’ ears fall back briefly, timid – by the idea that he has caused some unknown memory to unleash and burden his companion. He knows too well of this possibility, and feels obligated to tread lightly.

“Ah…” It’s hard to come up with something intelligible. Something light, neutral, but nothing can erase what Sacre must have seen. If the outward haunts are any indication, the topic itself will be a struggle to endure and extract.

The memories are put on hold however. The topic of diplomacy salves the stallion’s thoughts – at least for the time being. “That would be helpful. About the Gods, I am quite limited on their knowledge. Other than where their patron herds reside.” He gives a simple nod. As for the exchange of information, the gray grins back with a brief chuckle, “Please do. At least from the mouth of a disciple, otherwise… I might be stepping my boundaries.” He ducks his head and laughs. Truly though, Cass wasn’t completely sure what his duties entailed. Seeing how Frost Fyre appeared absent for the time being, he only had the leaders to answer to; and that felt… startlingly frightful.

“Oh, the Basin…,” the subject is one that gives pause. It is strange how this news has not carried over to the other herds. But it appears a common theme, that is not easily broached or bartered with – because the truth deserves its dues. Cass’s expression wilts briefly, uncertain and hesitant. His gaze briefly shifts to the mists that blot the landscape. Searching for the right words, worthy enough to herald the Basin’s most beloved of lords.

“Unfortunately Lord Deimos passed late Frostfall.” Who was Sacre to the late Lord? He will find out soon enough. He gives an apologetic smile. “The Basin has been rather quiet since his passing… Carrying on. I did not know him personally, but their loss was palpable at the time.” He shakes his head.

“Death is not a merciful thing, after all.” It takes and takes, and it is relentless. And despite his efforts, he is not immune to its presence that permeates the Basin’s frigid air.