Voidless black eyes blink slowly against the bright rays of sunlight that already break over the horizon in the early morning hours. Like most of the other residents of the Desert, the silver-haired witch is on the move early, beating the mid-day heat. Distant thoughts have weighed heavily on her mind as of late, distracting her from seeking the company of others. Asmodeus’ abandonment has dulled in the wake of the unknown changes that have continued to build around the Desert. Helios’ scent no longer clings heavily to the borders of the Dunes, the scent now is unfamiliar to her and that alone is enough to put her on edge. At least she knew who controlled the Badlands and the Hills… an unknown meant yet another challenge that she would need to overcome if she had any hopes of accomplishing her goal of yoking all of Salem beneath her monarchy.
It is the shrill squeal of a youth that draws Nyimara from her thoughts. Small, fluted lobes tilt forward amid the tangled web of her silvery forelock. Brows narrow suspiciously as the nymph stalks towards the sound with purposeful strides, her steps slowing only when she catches the familiar sound of Shenzi’s firm tones and the accompanying laughter of her young colt’s voice.
With a relieved sigh, the silver-haired mare halts as she tops a hillock of rock and sand, her keen gaze easily picking out the russet mare’s battle-scarred form as she guides her son to the edge of the oasis for a drink. The scene calming, even to her.
For a few more moments, she observes mother and son, reminiscing about the days not quite so long ago when she spent the same early morning hours with Cahyr. It reminds her of the need to spend more time with her own young daughter. Natyre deserved the same doting affection and cautious guidance, regardless of how traitorous her father was.
When Jaziri meaders off away from the stocky brown mare, Nyimara makes her approach. A coy smirk curves across her delicate lips as the mare lifts her muzzle to the gently blowing zephyr, no doubt catching the scent of her approach if the flicker of her ears is anything. But instead of turning to greet her as Nyimara had hoped, Shenzi lowers herself onto the cool sands along the water’s edge, her dark, russet eyes growing as distant as the silence between them. It had not been that long ago that Nyimara found her again, sprawled half-dead in the dry sands of the Desert. It was as much the witch’s own willpower as it was her taunts that breathed life back into the scarred mare. But since then, there has not been much said, and too much left unspoken.
A soft huffing breath escapes her nostrils as Nyimara draws near, her near-black eyes glistening in the bright morning light. ”The desert looks good on you…” she begins, her voice soft as she lifts her gaze to follow the wandering figure of Jaziri as he pokes and prods the rocks and bushes nearby. ”What is on your mind?” she asks, her tone even as she drops her gaze once more to the resting mare. Contemplation has never boded well between them.