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06-04-2013, 11:20 AM
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CIRCE The day was closing rather swiftly, but that was characteristic of Frostfall; it seemed to Circe that she had barely begun her sweep through the Threshold before the sun decided that it was time for creatures of the earth to go and prepare themselves for sleep. And, if some stray mortal happened to be too stubborn to follow the sun’s advice, the wind proved to offer a rather effective incentive; even with the warmth of the pale sun’s light, the chill was prevalent enough to seep through the skin, settling upon the bones as snow might layer itself thickly upon the branches of some forlorn, naked tree. The work was done for the day; Circe’s patrol was finished, her duties attended to. She was free to leave the accursed forest of strangers and lonesome travelers—her body certainly welcomed the opportunity for rest, weary as it was with her constant exertions—and yet the shadowmere found herself most reluctant to return to her homeland. While it seemed rather foolish and mystifying for her to refuse rest, Circe knew full well why she rejected her homeland; those once-verdant fields and hills that beckoned rest and reposed now sat desolate, covered in thick layers of frozen white snow—many, many layers of the awful white snow. And she hated the snow in the Foothills. Whatever the case, the sun was falling, and it would be foolish to linger in the freezing cold; already Circe found that if she didn’t keep in constant motion, her joints would lock up and movement would be painful. With a heavy sigh, Circe supposed it was time to end her daily exile; snorting softly, Circe angled her high-stepped trot to the north, carefully making her way through the snow-covered pitfalls of the pinewood forest. She allowed the beat of her foot-steps to rattle in her mind, a constant rhythm of mindless motion; it cleared her thoughts and strengthened her resolve, preparing herself to see even more snowfall. After some time, the shadowmere slowed her pace, coming to a brisk walk as the scent of another warmed the brittle winter air and brought Circe to her senses. She had gone all day without seeing a trace of life in this forest; travellers were frequent, yet the sorceress supposed that no one would dare traverse strange lands in the bosom of Frostfall. Well, now she had been proven wrong. A somewhat haughty-looking mare was approaching on the feet of a dancer, her poise graceful and her ruby eyes scanning the wood cautiously for any indication of another. It was Circe’s job to scout out those strangers that prowled the shadows of the Threshold, lest they give bulk and power to the now-ridiculous threat that were the Assassins. It was this duty that forced the shadowmere to turn her gaze to the approaching lady, though she didn’t care for her in the slightest; it was honor-bound obligation that forced a polite, pleasant word to seep from her lips, lips that would rather stay shut in brooding and melancholy. As the varnished lady came closer to the shadowmere, Circe would slow her pace even more so, and incline her head in a show of manners. “Lady,” she would say in mild greeting. If the lost soul wished for direction, Circe would give it. If the appaloosa wished for privacy, Circe would also give it. However, if she wished to bring the tides of discord in her waking steps—well, then, Circe would crush it then and there. |
