There was something terribly wrong with her father, Rhiannon had decided. She didn't know what, or how but something was making the Weaver of the Basin act completely out of the norm... Why, just days ago, he had been frantic and fearful of nearly everything, much like a newborn foal! Jumping at shadows and muttering things of conspiracies... Nonnie, uncertain as to what it could be and unknowing of the curse that had been placed on him by the Goddess of the Moon, merely chalked it up to the fact that perhaps Crowley had eaten some bad clover.

I'll just need to remember to not eat clover, the brindled filly had told herself with a resolute nod, 'Cause I don't wanna be scared of my own shadow, too. Like all things, such as a scratch or a sore muscle, Rhiannon figured that whatever was ailing her father would simply go away if she ignored it long enough... Except, come one frigid, Frostfall morning, the ebonite daughter was proven wrong.

Awoken by the sound of her father's gruff baritone, Rhiannon uncurled herself from around Talbot the Hellhound. He produced a remarkable amount of warmth, and on terribly cold nights, the two could be found curled around one another to stave of the terrible chill that lingered in the Basin. Still, as the brindled princess lifted her head, dual-colored eyes trying to blink away the lingering heaviness of sleep, she couldn't help but do a double-take when she spotted Crowley.

"... Papa? You look... Funny." Indeed, he did. As a matter of fact, he didn't look funny at all. Instead, the Weaver looked to be in terrible pain, with gross looking lumps marring his black hide. From the tip of his nose to the they seemed to be, and as her lanky legs stretched to their full height, lifting Nonnie's ebonite bodice from the ground, she couldn't help but venture closer for a look. As she did so, hover, Crowley spoke, and dutifully she listened. A well-behaved child when it came to her father, if not overly curious, Rhiannon always did as Crowley had instructed. Giving yet another resolute nod, the filly smiled, unknowing that the cursed Weaver couldn't see.

"Okay! I'll do real good, Papa; I'll make sure you don't even run into Talbot! So, Talbot... That means no getting under Papa's hooves today." With that innocent proclamation, Rhiannon turned on her sharp hooves and lead the way from the cave. She was mindful of all of their surroundings, gaze narrowing at the less-than-spectacular form of weather... Why would Lady Pscyche hold a meeting in weather like this? Maybe she liked the wet-ness that came wih snow. Still, knowing better than to question the motives of the Dark Empress, Nonnie continued leading Crowley towards the growing group of horned creatures in the distance.

Occasionally she would comment with, "There's a puddle there, Papa," or, "Don't trip on that log!" but somehow without incident, they finally made it to the meeting. Rhiannon quieted down as they mingled with the crowd, despite wanting to ask Crowley how well she had done and if she would get a reward, and in turn focused her hearing on what Psyche was saying. Dual-colored eyes lingered upon the Lady of the Basin, staring at her with open admiration. A beacon of power, Psyche was, and as she watched, Rhiannon couldn't help but feel empowered by her presence alone.

As young as she was, Rhiannon didn't understand the talk of 'pacts' or 'battles', and so the brindled filly let her mouth stay shut. Perhaps later she could let it run wild with questions...