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The natural instincts of fear, those coiling tendrils of adrenalin that told others to run were absent in her strange and bizarre mind. Instead, she had infinite reservoirs in which to hold her memorys - all aspects of a memory. Every emotion, smell, taste, touch, sound, and visual image was stored nearly; naturally there would not be much room for normality. So, when the Frost King made his appearance, large imposing form striding with all the chill of the north, she did not sway, her cloven hooves remaining perfectly, properly still on the ashen earth.
So this was Mauja? Her dual colored eyes slid over his form in a studious manner, the orbs taking in every spot and fleck of blue in his horn. He was built powerfully with high withers and strong hindquarters, and the fur that hung down below his hooves attested to his cold nature; she admired this, having always preferred the tundra to a more comfortable grassland. Even with her winter coat, she would never have such long, lovely feathers on her lower canons. The expression on her face held an innocent curiosity as well as a driving, inescapable need to know - stern, serious and desperate. A wild academic, much like a black and bronze brother who resided in this land.
The king's voice brought her back to the present, and she slid her newly focused, two colored eyes to the impartial face. When he spoke, she nodded once and inclined her head respectfully, bending a pale knee and tilting one of her cloven, tan hooves. Ophelia was not a selfish creature, nor was she disrespectful; she understood what suffering leaders took. She saw it in her father, watched the pains he took to lead his herd into the longest peace Isilme had ever known. "Sir," she said deferentially, her voice still gentle like chimes.
Deimos spoke then, and temper flashed in her strange eyes, her crimson orb taking on a strange and violent light. Despite being born of two noble beings, she was still the granddaughter of violence and terror. "As are you, Deimos," she replied, her voice cool. The rebuking of the kind calmed her temper, and she nodded. "My apologies, I allowed my temper to get the best of me," she replied, taking a deep breath and exhaling the tension from her lungs. "No, I am no vulture. I... Finding a description of one's self is difficult..." she muttered, knitting pale brows in concentration.
Her full, white and crimson tail swung at her hocks, and she rested one of her back hooves, a clear testament to the fact that flight instincts in her mind were dead. "I suppose you could call me a memory bank," she said finally, looking up at the king and casting a sour, quick glance at Deimos. He told her to leave and she snorted incredulously. "And you call me r - " She was cut off as her vocal chords seemed to turn to stone in her throat. Ophelia felt as if every cell in her body was slowing down and refusing to work. Red blood cells starved her brain, and her vision grew fuzzy. The very soul within her bones rattled and vibrated before draining, leaking out of her with cries of pain.
The young mare stumbled backwards, lids closing and white lashes falling to her delicate cheeks, and her proud, regal jaw lowered, lips brushing the ashen dirt. Was this what it felt like to die? Curious... feeling. Must have been... Deimos. Deimos. Vengeance. The weight of her lithe figure swayed on narrow, cloven hooves, and she crashed down to her knees, wanting nothing more than to lay down and pass. Was she a shell now? How... curious. How... agonizing.
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