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CIRCE In the dying light of another ended day, the world boomed forth with the force of a primeval roar. The shadowmere was shaken to her core with the force of the summons—for summons they were indeed. She knew they weren’t for her, but regardless, Circe found herself pulled away from her homeland, away from respite and further heartache; Circe found her legs moving with greater speed deeper into the forest, thick canopies stretching above the sorceress’s head as she was pulled deeper and deeper into the vault of the land. She couldn’t say why the rumbling call beckoned her so—it was not fear, or excitement, or the compulsion for duty that vaunted Circe’s desire to discover the source of such a mighty bellow. It may have been fate that forced the shadowmere into action—but she was moving much too fast, and with too much focus, for her to contemplate the intricacies of destiny. It wasn’t long before a faintly familiar scent begun to permeate the trees about her; Circe continued to run, but her mind began to reel as she tried to place the identity of the odor. Ophelia? She guessed, her thoughts perplexed, but this scent was different, with subtle alterations that nonetheless guaranteed the owner was not her Pale Lady. It wasn’t long, however, before Circe would witness the unknown person; with a huff, Circe came to the scene of something most bizarre. An ebony mare with a brown cub at her side approached what appeared to be a patriarch of these deep forests; with a jolt of comprehension, Circe realized this must be Ktulu, the other of the blasted twins, the Chieftainess she had only met through hearsay and notoriety. “….My Lady?” Circe whispered, coming to a halt some yards away from the spectacle; to run in after her liege guns blazing would be foolish indeed. She did not know what she was watching, if, indeed, she should be watching it; the Dark Lady might be approaching some foe of hers from long ago, triumphant in his demise—or she might be bringing comfort to the dying pillar of this forest. Whatever the case, Circe stood with misted eyes laid upon her Chieftainess, and the darkness of her mind and her aching body shattered and lay in desolate piles at her feet. |
