In the wake of his ascendancy, Asmodeus had grown restless. While he feigned aloofness at Nyimara's departure, her absence is worrying, especially considering she has taken with her his only living child. The patchwork stallion did not yet know if Cahyr possessed what it would take to be a benefit to his bloodline rather than a detriment, but he was hopeful for the boy's future. A future he would not have, if his scheming chocolate mother did not deliver him back home so the two of them could make good on their promises.

This restlessness had led the tobiano into constant patrols. He paced relentlessly along the borders, circling inland to the oasis and back, always searching for the next possible threat. He didn't know what Kohelet's untimely freedom would bring as far as trouble from the North, and he'd spent endless hours debating the wisdom of striking first. He had much strength to gain before he could match his father... and yet, Solomon was old, his power waning. He hadn't even managed to gain his crown back, and yet here Asmodeus was, waffling about when to strike.

The sharp scent of blood and birth cut through his musings and he turns to it sharply, abandoning his set path and loping toward the source with his jaw set and eyes narrowed. He had not seen his queen since the prior mid-fall, and the sudden possibility that she had gone and allowed some lesser man to cover her made red flood his eyes. She was his. The sight of what lay nestled in the Dunes, however, shocked him back to his senses and he halted at the top with a soft puff of sand to observe for a moment.

Whoever lay below was most certainly not Nyimara. She was smaller, more sturdy, her tresses longer, face delicate but not as dished, and her color most certainly more patterned with white. There was enough of his Queen there, however, to keep him curious and cautious however, and so he moved toward the mare and her still damp child with measured steps.

"Welcome home." Asmodeus says flatly, his head lifted as he looks at mare and child from a few paces away. He could rush up and lay teeth to her coat in a physical show of his dominance, but it seemed counterintuitive. He didn't really have the patience to keep trying to force a runaway to stay here in the Desert, and he seemed to remember someone saying that you caught more flies with honey than with a fly swatter. Regardless, he didn't intend to let this mare slip away and if she pressed the issue, he would press his.

"My name is Asmodeus." He began, and then, both because she looked more like Nyimara than that other patchwork stallion had and because he had already had one other mare arrive here looking specifically for his queen, Asmo hedged his bets. "I and my queen, Nyimara, are glad to have you." His gaze slid to the filly at her dam's side, impassive. "What are your names?"