In the days and weeks following Rhaenys’ birth, Nyimara finds herself alternating between nursing her newborn daughter and patrolling the dunes for any signs of intruders. It is clear by the amount of nomads that have traveled through the sandy seas as of late, that Joachim was rather lenient in his dominance. Nyimara would not be that queen. Even the gazelle and antilope herds were learning quickly that she had no patience for insubordination.

Today was one of those days where the silver haired woman found herself wandering across the dune caps, lost deep in her own thoughts. Though she had begun to once more make her rounds throughout the islands, reminding them of her ambition and determination, so far she had yet to strike at the Tinuvel king in repayment for the crimes against her. How. How would she do it? Stealing a mare or foal of his did not seem nearly enough to satisfy her, a war maybe? but that would require a great deal more planning and diplomacy than she cared for at the moment.

Sunlight glistened off the dark silhouettes on the shores and immediately Nyimara found her attention snapping out of her thoughts and to more persistent matters. Sharp eyes narrow as her lithe form tenses and pauses in mid stride. Small, fluted ears tilt forward as paper thin nostrils flare to inhale the strong zephyrs that dance across her. Fell. Even from the distance that separated them, the broad shoulders and inky black skin of her half brother is not one she can forget. However the small bundle at his hooves is unfamiliar to her. For a moment, she remains still, watching in mild fascination as the rugged warlander tentatively clears the salt water from the small child’s coat. Such tenderness ought to be yet another proof of their kinship to the old wolf and yet Nyimara cannot help but to feel her stomach roll. Such tenderness and concern was all too familiar to her. Instead of the obsidian stallion, Nyimara can just make out the smokey blue hues and bone white face of Bjorn. He too had taken considerable interest in his young children and often spent time clearing Sigurdr’s coat in just the same manner. The memory strikes deeply to an already festering wound.

Supressing a growl, the silver haired woman lifts her finely dished head and ventures closer. Long, mahogany colored neck arches as her ash dusted muzzle presses against the concave of her breast. A cheshire grin spreads across her lips as a nicker of acknowledgement echoes from her lungs. ”Fell…..” she purrs, the honeyed tone of her words exaggerated for his benefit. Though their shared a father, there was still a level of distrust she felt for the black stallion. She had not completely missed the scents of ice and snow on his coat the last time he visited her Dunes. He had come and gone without any vying for alliances or seeking homage. It was odd but then again, most of the stallions in their lineage seemed to be a bit… odd. ”what an unexpected surprise.” she continues on, careful to place just the right level of emphasis on the single word. She hated uninvited guests. She had assumed that Salem would be for the most part barren, at least that had been her experience in the Desert save for the small herd she had gathered. However since the first moment she placed her scent markers along the borders of the Dunes she has had nothing but wanderer after stranger after trespasser. Strange.

Tossing her head to rid her dark gaze of the straying tendrils of her forelock, Nyimara turns her attention to the sopping wet bundle at the stallion’s saucer-like hooves. A filly. The witch is not quite sure what shocks her more, the fact that Fell has obviously reproduced or that he would bring the child here to her. ”Yours I’m assuming?” she asks, glancing back up at him with a raised brow. What exactly was it he had in mind by bringing her here? Where was the foal’s mother? Suspicion dances in her gaze as the lithe woman’s unusually long tail switches slowly against her hips in impatient expectancy...