Common

The blue mare stiffens visibly as her words close into the space between them. For a moment, she reminded her of a doe facing down a hunting cat; as though she were not quite sure whether to run or to stand and fight the danger that lurked mere feet in front of her. Dark ears twist backwards and then forwards again as realization hits her. It is a reaction that Nyimara never tired of. Carefully she manages the smile on her own charcoal lips as the woman frowns. Her reply brings from the silver haired mare a knowing bob of her head. ’He is gone.’ It is a fate that she herself has been faced with time and time again. Though she chose to take a different route, there were moments in the lowest points of her life when Nyimara herself had pinned so desperately for the smoke colored Bjorn. She remembered spending her days staring out over the crumbling rock of the Ridge with desperate eyes searching the ocean for any sign of his bobbing head above the surf. She remembered the jagged dagger that have been twisted inside her breast as she watched him press tenderly against Siobhan and whisper words of love and adoration into the red woman’s ears. Her pain had been consuming at one point in her life but never again. Like a phoenix, she had risen from the ashes of her heart and now stood with more power and pride than she ever thought possible. She was better off without him.

A carefully placed huff of air escapes her nostrils as she gives her finely dished head a shake, as if to shove the sensitive memories back into the recesses of her mind where they belonged. She does not bother to comment on the woman’s words because compassion and gentleness have never been her strongest assets. Perhaps this was a lost cause. However, just when she thinks that perhaps there is nothing that the two might converse on, the blue mare introduces herself. ”Anne Boleyn.” she recites, tasting the strange syllables with her own tongue. A mouthful to say the least but perhaps no stranger than her mother naming her Nyimara. Hearing the woman admit that she has heard of her name before makes the beast within her purr with pleasure. As hopeless a task as it seemed, the islands were beginning to recognize her name and acknowledge it with either adoration or vehenence. Which of the two she preferred she had not quite worked out for herself but it was a start. She confirms the silver witch’s first assumption and mahogany ears twitch in acknowledgement and understanding. She too had traveled from one end of the islands to the other at one point or another in the days since she first came to the islands. A tiring task to say the least. She inquires about the witch herself now, asking what it was that brought her here to the commons. Absently, Nyimara tilts her concave face first to the left and then to the right before once more settling her dark eyes on the smoky blue stranger. A coy smile lifts the corner of her lips as she blinks innocently, ”I would think it quite obvious really…” she purrs, pausing a moment to let the words settle before continuing again. ”To save the lost souls like yourself.”

A nicker from somewhere behind them draws her attention now. Pivoting her heels, Nyimara shifts so that the newcomer can approach and be seen. ’I hope you don’t mind the intrusion…’ the words ring from the cream and white woman’s pale lips with such a genuine neutrality that Nyimara finds herself nodding her head in invitation. Whether the blue eyed woman had approached them with the intent to recruit or out of mere desire for companionship is not quite clear in this first moment, especially as her gaze darts first to herself and then to Anne Boleyn. The Peak is something she is familiar with and the pale woman is rewarded with a flick of her dark ears.

Flashes of the not so long past confrontation with Shenzi resurface. The Peak is where she had been. The Peak is where she believed that damned red woman slunk off too and it was the Peak that would be next on her list of conquests. However now is not the time and she is careful to keep the mask of indifference planted firmly in place as the not-so-fake fake smile draws her ashen labrums upwards in what she hopes as a welcome appearance. ”Oswin. It is a pleasure. In case you missed it, I am Nyimara, Queen of Salem’s Dunes.” she begins, pausing a moment to gather her next words carefully but it would seem Anne beat her to it. The venom with which the blue mare spits out her words is surprising and Nyimara finds her attention darting back to the cold eyes of the blue mare. A single brow raises in curiosity as she continues and absently the mahogany woman finds herself taking a step back to be able to fully fix both mares in her gaze. This has gotten interesting quite quickly.

’...even after your dealings with a murderer?’ the question is condemning and yet the excitement draws her nostrils together to intake a deep breath. ”A murderer? Really?” she interjects, blinking her dark eyes curiously at the pale Oswin. There were many murderers on these islands, her father being one of them himself and yet not for the faintest moment does she foresee this mare sharing dealing with the ex-wolf of Paradise. Casually she cocks a hind hoof at a comfortable angle against the ground, making it quite clear she has no intentions of abandoning this little interlude out of courtesy as another might have. She was in it for the long haul. She tilts her head towards Anne Boleyn now, her gaze encouraging the dark woman to continue her rant. She would find no chiding from the silver haired witch.