Snö was in a dangerous mood.

There were no other words to describe it. Today, she did not want to kill and murder and slaughter. She wanted to inflict pain, to taste blood on her lips and her hooves on satin coat. She wanted to tear skin, break bones, hear the satisfying crunch of shattering skeletons; she wanted to scent fear, and undying pain. She did not want clean deaths, she wanted to maim, for the ones in her way, however briefly, to be maimed, to feel that pain permanently, forever, she wanted them to regret ever seeing her cold face. Today Snö's heart was savage, burning with a cold flame, ready to torture and crucify. Whatever control she had over the desire normally was a faded ember, a parody of the iron fist she normally exerted over her racist nature. The cold of the wind cut straight through and shattered the last shred of warmth, kept hidden, from her younger days, when she was a small child unknowing of the Plague founded near the time of her birth.

Snö was beautiful as always, yet today it was a barbaric, uncivilized, uncultured, vicious pulchritude. Today her chestnut coat was not chocolate, but dried blood, russet turning brown, staining the white of glacial ice. Her mane and tail were writhing in torment as the wind snarled and snapped around her, as frigid as her heart. She raged in her silence, was terrible in her cold savagery, and the white-tailed rabbits fled from her step, and when one was not fast enough, she snarled and snapped, sending Tarak the bronze wolf racing after, and then the blood was on the ground. The terrible beauty stared at the quivering beast, bleeding from multiple piercing wounds, and took it from the wolf, sending her horn through it's leg, and watched it in cruel delight try to flee. Minutes passed, and Snö enjoyed its pain, savored it. Snö was confident no one was around- she was hidden by the scattered rocks, and far from any company whose scent may be carried by the howling wind.

So she watched to bleed out to death, and then she stepped so elegantly over it, her face an impressionable mask.

Snö moved out, delighting in the fierceness of the wind, itching to move from the Basin and go spying. Never had the warrior thought she might have enjoyed it- but she liked the freedom, even though her passion still lay with the warriors. As she moved towards the silver ocean, planning to follow it down to the Heavenly Fields, the wind carried to her a scent, one of feathers and sky, one of a pegasus and Foothills. A mercenary. Snö picked up pace, hooves a thunderous tattoo against the hardened, icy ground, carrying herself with a conceited, inborn vanity, neck arched and horn pointed, a glittering ice dagger. The ocean roared, a gray monster smashing against the ice, the air stinking of salt, a mockery of the beautiful ocean under the cliffs of the home she hungered for. It was only through that small ember did she slow to a respectable pace, coming in to the stallion she scented earlier.

Her eyes were wild and animalistic, a wolf's eyes, and Tarak, perhaps sensing her mood, bared silver teeth and narrowed eyes, mimicking anger. Snö's eyes skipped over him, sizing him up, from his youth to his size, to the color of his wings, but she didn't care. All she cared about was that he was not a unicorn, and he was near the Basin. Any beauty that might be seen in his face was stamped out. He was hideous, abominable, revolting, morbid, macabre, monstrous, gruesome, detestable- he was inferior.

"You are a long way from home." Snö said, her voice surprisingly calm and even for the war waged within her.