I'm just a poor, wayfaring stranger ;;

Leonine eyes trace the smirk gracing the mare’s grotesque features, a moment of thought given to the Cheshire-like action. Who was this woman of seared flesh and exposed bone? She holds herself like a headliner, but acts as if she is a simple stagehand … Experimentally, he releases tendrils of Altus’ power, sending gentle zephyrs to cavort unseen about her before ushering them back towards him. Black-lined nostrils expand and contract at their return, deciphering through the fragrant code. There is the thick, humid scent of the jungle upon her – either a Valkyrie or a recent visitor to the newly roused kingdom, though judging by the thickness of the identifying aroma, she is one amongst their ranks … His thoughts are interrupted by the ethereal howl of the Vista’s wolves. How many nights had he spent, locked away in his hidden copse of trees, listening for hours to the wolves sing their songs? An invisible shudder runs down the monarch’s spine, black tail shifting restlessly against his hocks.

Ears twitch against the cool words and the fact that she does not offer her own name does not go unnoticed. Her voice holds no hint of mocking, though such things are easily disguised. An indifferent gaze watches as she tilts her head in a bow of sorts, thoughts clicking away behind the two-toned mask. He must admit, he has not kept up on the politics of the Sisterhood as of late, too occupied with other matters, a shameful admission. The Queen of the Valkyrie kingdom (a kingdom that has become the enemy of his own) stands before him but because his knowledge of Courant’s warrior-women is limited, he cannot know this – not unless a name is given, for even he would be an idiot to now know that one named Tick Tock has assumed the throne.

Her offer for him to express his verbal frustrations is a tempting one, he must admit. With Avarice gone and his relationship with Tia Maria on shaky ground, the patchwork brute has none to confide in. Nevertheless, his secrets, his weaknesses – they are his and his alone. Always the strong, quiet type, Taboo has never found much value in speaking your inner thoughts to strangers. To nobodies, as the black mare had so eloquently put it. “Sometimes Paduan’s fires have a mind of their own,” he finally says. A wry grin twists blackened lips. “I appreciate the offer, but my thoughts, even my frustrations, are mine, and mine alone.” There is sincerity in his voice, though a tone of finality is adopted, making it evident that he is uncomfortable with the thought of sharing his current feelings. “Now,” he says, changing the subject and shifting closer to the stranger, “surely you are not just a nobody. Surely you at least have … a name?”