Murder wasn’t foolish enough to surmise that he would not be pursued the instant he set foot within the Foothills boundaries. He recognized Ophelia as a very perspicacious individual who would not allow her home to go unfortified. However when he saw the shadow of the avian damsel soar above him Murder had to concede he was quite impressed with their timing. Halting abruptly he knew it was futile to run. She may be the first to notice him trespassing but there were more where she came from and much larger wardens Murder was sure. Murder’s audits swiveled atop his crania as he listened to the thresh of her immense annexes while they severed the sky and the subtle thump as she descended, like a feather, upon the earth. Envy once again set in, as it had so many times before in the presence of pegasi, and Murder sighed with superfluous resentment. It was not xenophobia that he was expressing but in fact the exact opposite. Murder yearned to be akin to them, to have the aptitude of flight. Murder coveted wings. It was an ache he’d felt from the day he confirmed the existence of plumed equines. He felt the Gods had mocked him at birth by making him a unicorn. By giving him companions he would hold so dear with such a drastic difference to him. Murder would ever remain grounded and play the spectator as his beloveds glided through the firmament. The Deities cursed him to an existence of longing.

Though of late they had made Murder’s torment far worse.

His nares inhaled her feminine scent, mixed with a celestial aroma he was not conversant with, as it was congregated by the breeze and was carried to him, though he still had no visual on the vixen. Perchance if he convinced her that he meant no harm to her clan and even that he knew Ophelia, in more than a passing acquaintance sense, she could assist him instead of seize him. Nevertheless Murder had an inkling that was not likely to transpire.

... Murder, isn't it?

Murder’s lobes fell as he rotated his skull to face the harlot when she slid from the obscurities. Dropping his crania and pulling his jaw closer to his esophagus in a defensive stance Murder analyzed the viper with gruesome pools. It was evident she had malevolent objectives and Murder could sense his sinew tensing beneath his azure hide in speculation of the shrew’s ensuing action. I've heard about you. Her lyrics were alluring though they seemed to hold a falseness and Murder was far from captivated by her tone, in fact it set him more on edge. It was becoming ever more apparent that he would not be departing the Foothills anytime soon, and perhaps not even intact. The remainder of her dialog ran together and the final words Murder grasped before Irrydae extricated her magic was ”bad decision”.

Murder couldn’t elucidate or even comprehend what he witnessed or what happened to him. It was like viewing the cosmos detonate before his vermillion pits, it was beautiful and spectacular yet so very terrifying and Murder erected himself on his posterior limbs in a trifling endeavor to evade the blitz. The stardust collided into him with phenomenal potency knocking Murder to the soil with an excruciating crash. An atrocious scream left Murder’s larynx as he plummeted towards the forest floor. Dread plagued every inch of the defeated cerulean behemoth, though Murder was rapidly losing the vigor for even have the capacity to be afraid. His flanks heaved with labored breaths as he scanned his surroundings to the paramount of his abilities, knowing more denizens of the Foothills had to be on their way. If only Ophelia would come then Murder could expound himself and put things right. He only sought his crows, that’s all Murder ever wanted, was that too much to ask? Ophelia assured she would aid him, he never desired to hurt her.

She promised she would help me…

“Ophelia…please find me Ophelia.”

Murder’s vocals were ragged, strenuous and measured. It took all his virility to speak and he lay there hoping Irrydae would have compassion enough in her otherworldly form to do him that minor courtesy. However being an adroit creature Murder predicted nothing more than death.

{ ooc: bump? }