Thrown into the triangle as an unwilling fourth, Bagheera teeters on the precipice of retreating as suddenly as she approached. Her memory, though excellent, tends to only entrap the recollections of her haunting ghosts - the faces forever unforgotten mired and entwined with her own being too closely to be excised. Because of this affliction, she finds herself silently contemplating about the last time she had to receive such an onslaught of words. Instead of being captivated by their conversation, her attentive bright eyes are drawn to obvious juvenile within the group, taking stock of her reluctance and her apprehension. The pleading tone barely masked in the girl's outburst causes Bagheera's eerily canary-colored eyes to latch onto the girl's own. Does the plague of slithering specters - constantly swirling in the background - torment her as well?

Torn away from somber musings by Oswin's familiar voice, lovely ebony head returns a respectful nod to her fellow partner in post-combat misery. The lack of anywhere else to go, in conjunction with the champagne mare's invitation, had led her to the foothills of the peak. Though she is still hesitant to devote her life once more to a cause not her own, she is here - whatever that may prove to be worth. The skepticism of the lorded concept of an unbiased election has her in an odd state of curiosity mixed with cynicism. Too many times she laid her life on the line for tyrannical leaders, more often than not after their rise to power upon the hopeful wings of their constituents. Forgive her misgivings if they are found offensive - she is a realist surrounded by a world of idealists that spew promises yet to be upheld. She makes no commitments to this land, but for now she will reside within - her own slinking shadow darkening the hillside until she once more drifts away into oblivion.

The indignation of both Oswin and Bane bring the realization that perhaps she missed something in her dismal reverie about the constraints of government. Blinking once, slowly, she mentally rewinds the words previously tuned out. Ah, there it is, she thinks to herself. The other two were reacting to the desperation of the youngling, rightfully outraged at an apparent assault against the poor girl. The black hued gypsy adds a stomp of an oversized hoof, properly declaring her own disgust for the girl's injustice. Her gaze slides once more to the one called Hollis, sizing her up, but not threatening in the least. Bagheera does not feel the white-hot anger or the yearning to seek out the monster as her companions do. Exchanging her own bloodshed for that of another is always exhilarating, but what would that teach the delicate little dove? There will always be the looming threat of the wolves that pursue and strike, taking no heed whether they are exposed in the light of day or hidden in the consuming darkness of the night. Rise up, little bird, and take what is yours - for the day will come when there are no shoulders available to cry upon, nor a group of capable women to carry the torch of justice. One day there will only be you and the demons you must slay to remain alive.