Chalice had taken him up on the offer, following the gentleman-stallion to the foreign place he called home - chilled like ice in the earthlines, and yet only promising to grow colder as the ground wriggled itself down for a winter of slumber. It intimidated her, this frozen barrenness beneath her feet. Shallow earth made firm by endless cycles of winter that never fully thawed and stone that gave more warmth than even that earth. There is fertility, she can sense, but there was a bite to the sensations all around her that said the wilds here were feral and unkept. They would as soon consume the spirit of a Chalice as give her help.

There were mountains here, and sometimes other mountains felt like a cap over great fire -- she had thought at first this was the man of Fire that the oracle had foreseen, but then she felt the solidity of the earth and the way that they were so broken off from their wellspring of molten blood as to be impenetrable. This was not her man of Fire, nor was his home entirely happy about her coming. She was fruitfulness and it itched at the earthlines like she were a fly in it’s ear.

She was not going to be rude, though, and deny the hospitality that the Lord had offered her. No, he was no Master of the demesne, this land knew no true master in such a way, but he was the king nonetheless.

Her brilliance seems to wake the sun, though, from out of the wintry clouds. Even in the chill, her every fiber is sunny summertime. The world around her almost balmy despite the weather. She nibbles at shoots that slept, unknowing of her grazing until their little lights snuffed out and permeated her own body with the life they gave up. Her blue eyes are at half mast and she sighs pleasantly, no matter that she feels stiff in the flesh and the frost on the growth she chews bites at her tongue.