This girl is a gun, before you know it, it's done
And you'll be wishing that you crossed your fingers

arceline wakes at dawn, when the sky is still dark and daylight is still a smudge on the horizon, shades of pink and purple bleeding from the fine edge where earth meets sky. The stars still glimmer above but true daylight will swallow them whole soon, like so many little fires extinguished by the tides of time as it churns ever forward.

For now, though, the hour is still early and the rest of the Peak mares likely still slumbering, providing the Prime Minster ample opportunity to slip away unnoticed. Surely taking a few hours for leisure (or pleasure) won't do anybody harm? It has been some time since she has seen Asmodeus, after all. Even after so many months thoughts of him still linger in the corners of her mind like ever-present specters, phantom touches imagined against her skin when she is alone in the dark. Though she has no particular romantic attachment to the calico stallion, there is no denying that a baser part of her still yearns.

This is her reasoning as she rises from her spot next to Tony - in the low morning light it's hard to tell if her stirring has disturbed her daughter's slumber - and quietly slips away. She is confident her daughter will not be alarmed to wake without her, and will likely revel in the chance to have free reign of the Peak while she is gone. Though it would be beneficial to bring her along so she may finally meet her sire, Marceline is feeling selfish today, desiring little more than Asmodeus' undivided attention.

The shock of cold saltwater against her skin is enough to drive any lingering traces of sleep from Marceline's mind, leaving her wide-eyed and attentive as she makes her southbound journey. The sun hangs at its peak by the time her hooves make contact with the familiar shores of Salem. Her delicate muzzle lifts to the wind, nostrils flaring as she surveys her surroundings. A strong, familiar scent fills her nose, crimson lips curling into a pleased smile. But beneath Asmodeus' alluring musk there is another scent, more feminine but also all too familiar. Nyimara.

Figures she has returned. Marceline, however, has no intention of letting the silver-haired mare's presence hinder her efforts. Brazenly she lifts her head once again and lets a shrill whinny whistle past her lips, a summons for Asmodeus - but perhaps also a challenge for the witch queen, should she be in the mood to play.