I'm just a poor, wayfaring stranger ;;

His gaze is drawn to the vial of light hanging about the mare’s neck. The light shifts and separates, a caged creature content with its lot in life. His aquamarine answers the soundless call – soft, almost transparent tendrils of light eke out from the embedded gem and lazily make their way across the grass-covered terrain. At the shadow-cast mare’s next words, however, the threads suddenly wink out of existence and several fire-vipers replace them. Their thick, ophidian bodies are resplendent in the finest golds and reds, with eyes of blue and tongues of green. They shiver and shake, hissing their way towards the ragged woman, leaving black scorch marks in their wake. Several feet from Taboo, they turn once again, dutifully recalled to their creator, settling at the King’s feet in a roiling mass of crackling flames. “Do not lecture me on the uses of Paduan’s magic,” comes his ghostly quiet reply, lackluster eyes complacent. No hint of animosity behind that gray and white mask, though it is clear by his tone of voice the monarch does not appreciate being told to mind his p’s and q’s. He is no longer the young upstart he once was -- unaccepted among his peers in Hoof Prince and content to follow the orders and demands of those of higher rank.

She answers his question with a riddle of sorts, and his equine brow furrows in consternation. The gray and white stallion has been around long enough to note an evasion when he hears one but for now he is content to contemplate her story, however brief it may have been. He could see, judging by the exposed skeleton and charred flesh, how she could be deemed a monster. His flesh crawls at the eerie sound the bones make whenever the sable woman moves. But she could not possibly have been born here, in Hoof Prince, where unique forms are a way of life. Had Taboo not only recently run across a boy with fully functional gills at his throat? So she is not Hoof Prince borne …

The stranger increases the distance between them, interrupting his methods of deduction and drawing his attention to a bunching of lilies. Slowly but surely the flowers begin to open up beneath the gentle touch of moonlight, accompanied by a quiet narration. Silvery ears twitch at the quiet speech and it is several long moments before he replies. “I have,” he admits, honesty coloring those masculine tones, “and I am,” he finishes, his thoughts turning to Avarice, the dull yellow of his eyes brightening to a luminous gold. There is no mockery in his voice, only clear-cut honesty. “But who wants another who only refers to herself as a nobody or a monster?”