Nyimara was livid. Well, perhaps livid was not strong enough a word, even outrage did not manage to cover the extent of the emotions that boiled beneath her skin. Pain, excruciating, undeniable pain etched itself beneath every hair of her mahogany body. She was used to the fates turning their noses at her ambition and determination to succeed. This, this was something else entirely. Wild fury rimmed her eyes reddened by pain and anger. Muscles tensed beneath the sleek shine of her water drenched coat as she surged onto the white sandy shores with a harpie’s scream. If she had no one else on this earth, she knew that at least she could rely on him. It was his grandson after all, even if he had not had the opportunity to know him.

No one had.

Renewed venom burns through her veins as she gives her proud head a shake, sending silver white locks snapping audibly against the supple, mahogany curve of her neck. She needed vengeance, she needed blood. The black bitch would pay, as would the rest of her herd. Nyimara would burn the Ridge to the ground or die trying.

Nycol…. Nycol…. Her poor boy. Her bright eyed little boy. Sigurdr had been stolen by Bjorn, his loyalties lying with the damned red woman long before Nyimara could ever offer him any sense of herself. Siobhan had taken advantage of her absence in her father’s war and despite the fierceness with which she fought Cullen on the shores of the Lagoon to win his freedom, it was to Siobhan that Sigurdr always found himself drawn to. Nycol…. Nycol was hers alone. Cullen was never one to show much affection or interest in children aside from the purpose of procreation. Cullen had seemed pleased to know that their coupling produced a male heir, but Nyimara’s claim over the boy had been enough to widen the barrier between them and it has been many months now since his golden form cursed the view of her horizons. He would be no help. He had no help. He was no better than an outcast. Rejected from the brothers of the lagoon that so long he had strived to protect and build. He could not help her… but Rougaru could.

It has been many years since last she laid eyes on her sire, but never once has her faith in her sire wavered. If anyone can help her to get the justice she deserves, it would be him. Now whether he put weight on the price of blood over alliances was another story completely. The old wolf has always been conniving and cunning in his dealings with diplomacy and hierarchy in the world. After all, it was she who had been gifted to Bjorn in order to seal an alliance between the bear king and the wolf pack. That alliance had crumbled and dissolved quickly, but Nyimara hoped that this burn would be felt by the wolf lord as fiercely as she felt it herself.

She does not wait for Rougaru to appear, instead strides purposefully through the thick jungle brush. Proud head holds high, even as the gnarled vines and twisting branches slapped across her finely dished face. She did not care, there is a purpose to the set of her jaw and the darkness in her eyes. Ears remain buried beneath the thick mantle of creamy white tresses as she dares any of his sentinel offspring to approach her in an attempt to thwart her mission. She would make them ALL aware of just what a monster lived next door. She brushes by Rougaru as she finds herself among the close knit herd, dark gaze swivels to her sire as she bumps her hip against him before coming to a halt in the middle of the loosely gathered mares and children. Let them all know.

”Father, I come to you for help…” she begins, her voice lingering now as her dark gaze roamed over the few herd members of Paradise that gathered around before returning to her sire once more. Brows narrow as paper thin nostrils flare, the words spat like poison from her tongue. ”That bitch stole my son!” she growls, her voice dark and throaty, a far cry different from the usual lilted humor that colors her words. Anger grinds itself in the very core of her body, her dark skin prickling, ”Faolain…. She killed him. That black beast shoved my poor son, your grandson off a cliff and into oblivion! She killed him out of spite!” she breathes, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she tries again to grasp the last strands of humanity that tie her to this world. Nycol was not her only child. Raksha, Sigurdr and Skogsra might be grown but Warduna still needed her and now more than ever, the bald faced girl needed her mother to ease the painful loss and the helplessness that enveloped her in dourness. She would not wither away. Nyimara would see to it that Warduna painted her hooves in the blood of Faolain’s broken body with her. Together they would taste revenge.

If only Rougaru and his herd would step forward.

Now her dark eyes turn towards him, small fluted ears pricked forward as she stands attuned to him, waiting impatiently for his reaction. ”What say you old wolf? What about your pack? Will you help me? Nycol was your flesh and blood as he was mine.” casually her glance shifted around them, ”He was part of us all. Bound by blood.” there is no desperate plea in her eyes, instead it is fire and fury that heat her gaze as she returns her eyes to Rougaru expectantly. The tides were turning and soon the islands would feel her flames.

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