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Once more, Circe continued to travel with the Pale Lady, making their way to the eastern lands where the air was humid and carried the scent of all sorts of salt and spirits. The very ground beneath their hooves was laced with pearly sand; though it was well into Orangemoon, the winds felt fair and favorable, warm on the skin and pleasurable to wind through one’s locks. Circe couldn’t help but feel rather agreeable to all of this; the weather was fine, and her Lady’s companionship was pleasurable indeed. She began to feel a sort of gentle pull towards Ophelia; while the cloak of strength and infamy beguiled respect in any eye and walk of life, Ophelia’s quiet charm and polite, if somewhat brooding, demeanor was beginning to affect the sorceress. She had seen the harshness with which the Pale Lady could act upon—but it didn’t seem to be her way. Her poise and mannerism certainly clashed with the façade of the Grey, and while Circe knew better than to be fooled by appearances alone, she couldn’t help but find some personal respect for the Chieftainess. She certainly liked to travel with her; the lady seemed to be respected or at least known wherever she placed her beige hoof; word of the Blasted Twins traveled far.
Once more, they found themselves at the edge of a herdland, waiting on the appearance of some mysterious leader to impart the message with. Circe listened as her mistress seemed to muse out loud; she paid no mind to the murmured words, missing the crucial detail of how they emanated straight from her brainpan instead of those ivory lips. The shadowmere didn’t have long to observe, anyway; she and the Pale Lady were beset by a graceful shadow and the bulk of a huge, lame-winged Pegasus, meeting their tiny entourage on the borderlands. Circe studied to two leads—they were called Weyrleaders? The shadow was a smaller mare, one of hard golden irises and calm, resolute poise; the other recalled the General Archibald in Circe’s mind, yet while her commander was a bloodthirsty brute, this one emanated a gentle disposition despite his imposing size. What an odd place here, Circe though, her tail waving behind her in a display of casual disinterest as talk began to be exchanged—
*GOLG!*
With a heavy snort, Circe’s head snapped ever straighter, her eyes brightening as she searched for the source of the noise. Her mistress explained; it was the first words of her companion, the winged, silver lizard she referred to as “Tinek”. With a slight frown, Circe listened to the Pale Lady’s words; they sounded wrong for some reason, but the sorceress could not place the detail that made them so queer.
*"Price? I suppose we are mercenaries; should I charge to aide these people? Why does that seem so wrong?"*
Circe cast an inquiring glance toward her mistress; it seemed as though she wished to speak of private matters with the shadowmere, but she was speaking much too loudly to keep it properly discrete. She watched the mare’s expression, searching for some inner meaning or direction; she was confused as she saw her mistress’s lips remain still, yet mortified as she listened to more, plainly audible and painfully personal contemplations permeate the air.
*"Tall, dark and handsome; he certainly fits the description for a mare's fantasy."*
Whoa.
What was coming over her Chieftainess today? Circe listened to that last musing with a slight pang; it was ill suited and she couldn’t figure out what made the words affect the shadowmere so strongly. Nevertheless, something was wrong with Ophelia. The normally demure and civil mare was now ejaculating such personal, embarrassing things out in the open as though her hoof were caught in the crook of her teeth. The Lady then began to give her own salutations and also impart the crucial message they had set out to spread, but Circe felt distinctly wrongfooted throughout. The tips of her ears began to get somewhat hot; it was rarely that Circe lost her composure, but this situation warranted it. When another stallion came upon the scene, the tension suddenly thickened; cordial as they may treat each other, Circe could tell that the history between Ophelia and the black and white stud was not a happy one. With another pang of awkwardness, Circe listened as her mistress once again blurt out another seemingly private train of thought:
*“Come to pass more judgment?"*
The shadowmere could bite her tongue no longer; she stepped forward, bending her muzzle toward Ophelia’s ear. “M’lady,” she said, her husky voice low and apprehensive; she didn’t quite know how to say what she needed to say—only that it needed to be said. “Are you…erm…feeling okay? Should we perhaps move on and give you a chance to clear your mind?” Perhaps it was the tension of the journey that had caused her Chieftainess to act so weirdly; the Pale Lady might be even more stressed than Circe first realized.
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[O] Danger Looms [ranked Edge/circe/throat]
