The idea of respite within a safe harbor is an unattainable ideal within the ebony girl's mind. Many months passed, blended into years of hardship, that the idea of tranquility only marred by occasional tenacious outsiders is too alien to process. Though she has seen but four full transitions of the seasons, the mare is an old soul bound by the chains of traumas survived. Her ghosts forever linger in the periphery of her mangled mind, remaining shackled as firmly as she to the ideations long lost. The twisted slideshow of reverie never completely dissipates. Even within this newfound corner of land boasting democracy, the shadow of trepidation remains a heavy burden lingering at her back.

The hiding of skeletons is tricky and difficult to master. Too often those seeking misdeeds find a crack in the veneer and easily open the closet door. The opening of the door creates a cascade of bone and bloodied flesh that cannot be shuttered away again despite one's best efforts. Once the darkness comes to light it is impossible to thoroughly staunch the the landslide that ensues. The easier task would be to remain tight lipped and distant. The self-imposed loner is far less likely to be loose with their words. Too often an overflow of the mouth has brought about the downfall of even the most ironclad civilizations. Imagine what such revelations would do to the likes of one small being.

Bagheera slinks along in silence next to the champagne mare, allowing her amber eyes to absorb the hills and hollows creating the terrain. The smile that crosses the other's lips is not missed by the raven girl's gaze. Perhaps the election is something Bane aspires to be a participant in. The declaration of arrival at the foothills of the massive peak causes Bagheera's eyes to shift to the immense rocky structure towering before them. She inhales softly, allowing the fresh mountain breeze to tickle her nasal passages. How lovely it is to be within a place not riddled with war or the stench of decomposing bodies.

She exhales rather sharply when Bane attempts a question - Do I even wish to stay? she ponders to herself. She has never been a diplomat, for they boast too many words each time they open their mouths. Her existence has been centered around the complexities of battle from the first drawing of breath, yet the idea of blind devotion to another cause without a defined mission feels catastrophic to the somber woman. What specters would be collected and catalogued from the fallout here? A sharp shake of her head causes the golden trinkets fastened within her mane and ear to tinkle softly. Her cat-like yellow eyes seek the gaze of her companion, wishing to delve from the depths the hidden subtleties within the loaded question. "I have no aspirations ter leadership. My body dinna possess enough words nor want ter sway anyone ter a cause." She pauses, pained by the declaration she knows must be made. "If I am ter reside here, the only advantage I could provide would be the flesh on my bones - I am but a warrior." The last words are spat from her lips as if they taste like putrid meat. She is but a machine oiled and ready for yet another act of desolation to lay claim to her haggard soul.