After the somewhat pointless and unexpected encounter with Lucifer in the Falls, the silver-haired witch turns towards the meadows in hopes of coming across more pleasant companionship. Regardless of what agreements the black beast might manage to draw from her, there would never be a day when she would consider that stallion pleasant company. As always, his presence left a bitter taste in her mouth that no amount of cold spring-fed water from the Falls could remove.
Anger still seethes beneath her skin at the barbed banter that had transpired, digs meant to bury beneath her skin like an itch she couldn’t quite reach. No matter the excuse she placed or how dismissively she had been, even she could not deny how it looked. She HAD walked away from the Desert without a fight. The fact that Lucifer knew that only irked her more.
A snort escapes her flared nostrils as Nyimara emerges from the thick forest of trees that surround the meadow and allow her dark ooids to roam over the loosely gathered horses that milled here and there through the knee-deep grasses. No face particularly stood out to her yet and to be honest, she was no longer in the best of moods for meeting strangers. So instead of wandering near one of the more solitary groups, the silver-haired witch prowled to the opposite end of the meadow where a shallow creek offered a fresh option of snow runoff from the mountains. The water was not nearly as sweet as what poured from the Falls, but at least Lucifer wasn’t here to foul it.
Nyimara dips her muzzle to the quietly babbling stream, letting her whiskered lips skim across the surface in an effort to avoid tainting her drink with sand. It’s only when the water-soaked mare draws closer (the stench of salt water and brine a sharp contrast to the fresh fragrances around her) that the witch-queen takes notice.
The spotted mare looked exhausted to say the least. A look that she was far to familiar with for her own liking. ”Oh for gods sake, can no horse manage a swim anymore?” she chides aloud, more to herself than directly to the mare ambling nearer. Apparently, her latest mission in life was to rescue those lost at sea.
Raven-tipped ears pitch forward amid the wind-swept tendrils of her silvery white mane. Slender legs wade across the pebbled creekbed and carry her up the steep, albeit short, embankment on the side closest to the approaching mare. The nicker that leaves her lips is meant to draw attention. A single brow raises in curiosity. ”If you're looking for a place to bathe that stench from your coat, I don’t think the stream is nearly deep enough. I believe there is a pond somewhere near the Peaks, but I think you will only be trading the smell of brine for mud.” She purrs with an upward twitch of her lips, her dark eyes shining with amusement. It was funny to think about, but neither option sounded particularly appealing to her in truth.
”Might I suggest a patch of clover instead? The blossoms will take that stench right off with enough effort.” Look at her now, being Miss Helpful. Curator of the Islands. Was this what aging did to her? Turn her…. Soft? Maybe she did need to find a way back to Salem, if only to keep her tongue and mind sharp.