Eyes dance with emotion that veers towards anger, one that Lakota is deeply familiar with. Instinct tells her to react in the same manner, but realization comes and whispers in her brain that it is not directed at her. Perhaps she had been in deep thought when Lakota happened upon her, and the reaction was inevitable? Whether or not she is correct the tense muscles relax to a visible degree, and Lakota lets the edge of her mouth twitch up slightly. It’s hardly able to be called a smile, more wry grin than anything, but what the heck she tried. Soft sigh escaped the mare’s lips and Lakota understood fully. Sometimes that question brought up rather terrible memories, and she couldn’t deny that if she had been asked it upon venturing into Helovia she would have reacted quite the same. Not that any of that showed on her regal, composed face. Response is brutal and terse, and wry smile appears once again. She likes this mare.

Vivid violet irises harden and she takes a miniscule step forward. ”Then you are brought here by similar reasons I too once found my way into these woods.” Compassion and empathy do not flow within her tone, but it is clear to anyone who listens that she can at least relate to Circe’s hatred. Though she is wise to realize that Lakota isn’t there to entertain her, for she too gets straight to the matter at hand. Lakota is willing to draw her into the shadows that always seem to encase her, to take her into the Grey should she be open to the idea. Circe, huh? ”This is the Threshold of Helovia, land of wanderers. These trees always seem to draw newcomers, and many come to this place to recruit. Helovia is a land of magic, with Gods that peer into our lives to bless us at random moments. There are four herds and multiple bands, one of which I belong to. The Aurora Basin, racist unicorns though no doubt strong. The World’s Edge, open to all races and bordering the western edge of the sea. The Windtossed Foothills, with a recent change in leadership, to the east. The Dragon’s Throat, a militant herd that lies in the south. Then there is the Grey, whom I belong to. A group of mercenaries and spies that fight for those who cannot, working in the middle for peace that cannot be won through kind words. We are the misfits, in a way. But we are a family and we work in a tightly knit fashion, only taking on tasks if we are sure to be paid and never leaving our neutrality. From what I know there are only two other growing bands, which are too small to have a name to fear that I know of.” Flippant tone explains this all in a clipped, even tone that is completely impartial until it comes to her precious band of fuck-ups. They gnaw on her heart like little grub monsters but she deals with them anyways. She smoothly answered both questions in one go, using her time wisely. Wishing to return to the shadows she loved, though quite intrigued by the mare by this point.