Meadow

As proud as the silver-haired witch felt over her most recent victory against her once-king, his barbed tongue had touched a nerve a bit too close to home for her. ’..you should be training Cahyr for the role….’ More than anything, the idea that he was the one to suggest it made her skin crawl. As if he, the one whom she practically dug from the hibernating snows of Tinuvel. The one whom she polished and nurtured with venomous words and beautifully carved pictures, the one whom she lifted from potential heir to a polished throne, had no place to chide her. She was not the one who had all but abandoned his throne without so much as a ‘thank you’ beside his discarded crown. How. dare. He.

Perhaps the biggest kick to her ego was that not only had he set himself up next door to her own brother; but that the bastard decided to put a pretty little crown on Marceline’s damn head. Yup. That was the gasoline on the flames. She knew it. Asmodeus knew it. Even the smug grin on Marceline’s lips knew it. She wanted to wipe that smile off the red woman’s face; wanted to scratch her pretty little claws deep into the spotted mare’s eyes and rip her apart for everything that she continued to steal from Nyimara’s grasp. The filly would have been a nice touch, right up her alley, too. But alas, even she would not purposefully risk a child’s life, even if it was the living embodiment of betrayal.

The fact that she bested Asmodeus is both infuriating and causes her to retreat if only to seek her own thoughts. The chimera stallion was cunning, his plans carefully concealed behind those eyes of sea-green hues. Where once he carried his emotions close to the surface, he has since learned to carefully hone the skill of hiding his motives beneath layers of indifference. She had taught him too well.

Instead of swiftly ushering Cahyr away from the Shore upon her victory, Nyimara gives father and son the opportunity to share parting words. She trusted Cahyr to come when he was ready. The swim between the island of Atlantis and Salem was far less turbulent and dangerous than the swim back from the mainland had been the year prior. The silver-haired minx has never been the doting, motherly type; she believes her children should be raised with some semblance of trust.

But instead of rushing back to her kingdom of sand, Nyimara turns to the main island if only to clear her mind and distance herself from the myriad of suffocating thoughts and emotions the sight of Asmodeus and Marceline together brought. Anger emanates from her dripping pelt as the mahogany woman draws from the shallow surf and heads straight inland without bothering to pause and rid herself of the salt water’s cling. Small, fluted ears pitch forward amid the water-logged tendrils of her alabaster mane as inky-black eyes scan the sparsely populated meadows of yellowing grass. Here and there, horses mill about in close-knit groups, stallions parading themselves before flashy mares that titter with sweet, sing-song voices. The typical dance of fall that should entice her seems to hold no pleasure. At least not in anything that dares to strut close enough.

Dark eyes roll dramatically as a particular brown beast seems to zero in on her singular presence. Raven-tipped ears snap back in warning as nostrils flare, but even that seems to not deter the idiot. Instead of being forced to listen to whatever flighty fantasies he hopes to rain down upon her ears, Nyimara turns to the nearest creature to her left. ”So where are you from?” she purrs, her unusually long whip-cord lashing lightly as she pointedly turns away from the approaching suitor in favor of her chosen companion. Feigned curiosity blinks from behind the carefully placed mask as the delicate minx settles a coquettish smile into place. If nothing else, at least the thought of Asmodeus was no longer at the forefront of her thoughts. Small victory.