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08-08-2013, 01:53 PM
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CIRCE And so, with the birth of a new season of hope, the fireflies that adorned their faithful mistress finally fell to ground and died. Circe was shocked with her emotion at their passing. It was true that they had healed her heart in many ways and she was eager to be independent of their brand of morphine-- and yet the shadowmere felt as though she lost an old friend as she gazed upon their tiny remains. Suppose it was silly to mourn the deaths of mere insects; Circe didn’t think as much. With abnormally delicate movements, Circe created a tiny burial mound for the fireflies, enshrouding the tiny insects with dirt, mud, and bits of loam that littered the melting ground. There she placed a stone, whitewashed with age, to mark their resting place. Her gaze lingered there for some time; the breeze whistled in her mane, the stars twinkled above, and the bugle sounded for a meeting in the distance, in her homeland. With a soft snort, Circe let one last look fall softly upon the fireflies’ grave; she tore her eyes away after some time, making her swift, silent way across the border of her homeland, into the heart of the Foothills where her family needed her. And so she arrived, and the vista the shadowmere was met with was somewhat curious to her eye; she was met with the declaration of a new chief in their midst. In truth, Circe’s own regard for Apollo’s appointment was a reserved one; she knew the painted boy surely, though not as well as she would’ve wished. He didn’t control where her sword would pierce and whom her magic would punish; that power lie with Ktulu and Archibald only. However, he was still sovereign, and still demanded the same respect Ophelia once provoked from Circe’s heart. As the Pale Lady came into mind, Circe washed her painful, twisted memory away with a snort and a wry thought: I wonder how I should address our new Chief? Mine Piebald Lord, perhaps? What a nice ring. She listened to her brothers and sisters speak of varying items; of their desires for rank, of danger that lurked outside their borders. There was a new one to beware; the Asylum, they called themselves? Circe’s eyes became lidded with a mocking swagger, her mind casting back to the last “threat” that loomed across the outcast lands—the adorable little club that called themselves Assassins. I wonder where they go now? Circe thought idly, her tail flicking absentmindedly as the gathering trudged on. “I would be interesting in learning the ways of twisted medicine, Lakota,” Circe said, her eyes finding the mare who had invited the shadowmere in origin to join the ranks of this depraved family of hers. The thought caused her raw, achy heart to clench; such was the lingering symptom of the darkness of Frostfall. Still, the springtime was a new awakening for the sorceress, a chance for her to build back her weakened, shriveled heart—and with this new awakening sprung forth a passion that whispered dire warnings in her ear. “My family,” she started, looking from the eyes of her Dark Lady into the kind ones of Apollo, and from thence to every soul assembled, young and old, “I do not wish to see us broken by blight. We’ve…been hit hard with the loss of family members, I know this. But I would not have us scattered as leaves and dust in the wind.” Her eyes hardened somewhat as she considered the rest of the herd. Her herd. “I swore to protect the backs of my countrymen when I joined these ranks. I trust you to do the same for me.” |
