Asmodeus did not like to admit that he had begun to doubt the silver-maned witch he had allied himself with so long ago. In the beginning, he had been steadfast in his assumption that she would return to claim Desert once more, but as the months passed without word he had begun to doubt. Holding the Desert as his own and working toward his own ambitions had given him a sense of self and purpose that made Nyimara's participation feel like less of a crutch. And he had just begun to accept that she was not coming back (or at least not back to him) when Cahyr's return had spiked the anticipation again, but as autumn began to pass them by without hide nor hair of the once-Queen, Asmodeus' assumptions had grown darker.

The fact that she hadn't come back to him was upsetting, but he had begun to accept that fact already. Her promises were always to be taken with a grain of salt, just as his own were. But the fact that she had abandoned Cahyr? That was upsetting. Precocious though he was, Cahyr was still a child. Still vulnerable to her many, many enemies.

One slip of who his mother was could have ended his life before he'd had a chance to live it.

Still, the sight of her striding across the dunes quiets the tobiano and he stares - wordless - as she approaches. She is beautiful, that much he cannot deny. She belongs on Salem the same way the cacti do, as much a part of this landscape as the sky. But there is not a single ounce of guilt or shame or contrition on her elegant face. No apology rises from her lips, not that he expected to hear one from her. Even the praise she offers glances off of his unreadable mask, acknowledged for the manipulation attempt that it was.

"Quinn is gone." He states flatly, something dark in his eyes had flickered at the mention of the man who had been his rival, despite no direct confrontations between them. Asmodeus grows quiet for a moment, tearing his gaze away from her to peer out over the scrub brush and sands that he had grown quite accustomed to. Both because he needed to steel himself to say what he must, but also because he wanted to give her as little indication as possible of his own feelings on the matter.

"And Solomon is dead." Gone. Dust. Likely not buried, given the lack of horse-shaped shovels, but certainly food for vultures now. Wolves. Bears perhaps. He wonders, absently, if Daciana will remain strong enough to protect his child against the wolves - real and metaphorical - that will pour in in the absence of Solomon's crown. He does not know if she will admit who the babe's sire is - if one should quicken - or if she will attempt to keep that fact to herself.

He turns back to her, his expression blank, eyes so dark that the light the blue and green has nearly disappeared into black. "The Desert is mine now." Asmodeus brokered no argument over this, and though he made no movement toward her, the weight of his next statement hung heavily in the air. "And now so are you."

His muzzle wrinkled slightly, taking in the sea-washed scent of her. Now that she had begun to dry off, the hints of where she'd been lingered on her skin were finally beginning to be discernable beneath the salt. "Now that the tables have turned." He spoke again, voice quieter, expectation and anger hanging on each syllable. "Perhaps you should begin with why you reek of someone else."

Adult Stallion 16.0HClassic Champagne ChimeraSolomon x Xiomara