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*“As General of the Foothills, and you a warrior, you fall under three rulers: myself, Ktulu and Ophelia."*
The shadowmere’s neck seemed to straighten as she listened to the banter between the two. He was General, then? It made a certain kind of sense—the unyielding steel behind his countenance would certainly fit the position of such power and responsibility—though while it was clear he was a warrior to Circe, she hadn’t banked on him being her direct superior. Somewhere in the winding hills of her new home, while she had been grumbling and groaning and itching to be of use, some wayward twist of fate had decided to present Circe with the chance to impress. The idea alone was enough to beguile ghost of a smirk to mold her features—but the sorceress resisted the urge for the time being.
*"You are welcome here, executioner, this is your home just as much as it is her's."*
Circe’s eyes traveled to the pale-gold mare who accompanied them, a new spark of interest in the blue of her gaze. The gold mare was indeed of the Grey—though newly instated it seemed. With a cock of her ear, Circe noticed the way the magenta-eyed fae was turned rather stiffly away from the shadowmere, as though deliberately trying to avoid the Executioner’s eye. That observation, coupled with the Dauntless’s admonishments on the matter, really did cause a smirk of cynical amusement to transform Circe’s features; in a tick of nervous, tickled habit, Circe crossed her forelegs together briefly before settling back into a balanced, neutral stance. Is this a mare’s idea of fun? Circe wondered, noticing quite clearly now the affront in the hard lines of the female Ailith’s countenance. Inventing and abiding by silly rules of etiquette? What have I done to offend her --ignore her? I have no words to give her. This was a woman’s type of game, and as the shadowmere was not raised in such social graces—being a feral child of lawless, careless, cut-throat ways—she elected not to play in them.
Her attention returned to the General as he addressed the both of them, inquiring as to their activity as recruits to the Grey. Circe snapped to attention at once. “Yes sir,” she responded bluntly, learning with the Poisoner, Lakota, that succinct answers were taken well with the members of the mercenary band, “I have been patrolling the borders of the Foothills and learning the territory, familiarizing myself to the scent that accompanies our brethren. I admit—I’m ignorant to those outsiders who may be allowed in our borders. It was this ignorance that lead me here,” she inclined her head toward Ailith, suppressing another smile, “as her—that is, your scent—isn’t entirely acclimated to the territory. You seemed a stranger, and so I investigated.” Circe turned her attention to Ailith this time, showing that, yes , she was very much an acknowledged member in their party.
Such a show of courtesy seemed almost childish to Circe—as though she were assuaging the hurt feelings of some child who was pushed down in the dirt…Goodness, but it was hard for the shadowmere not to laugh at her own thoughts.
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