grainne

And if one day she comes to you
Drink deeply from her words so wise

   It was funny how fate went about answering requests. Sometimes pleas are left unheard, spoken into the unforgiving air to be forgotten and abandoned and the supplicant left to deal with the cards given to them. Yet when fate listened, when it harkened a request, more oft than not it was rather queer in it's enacting, as if an abstract force had such a thing as a sense of humor.

   The peaks of the Arma Mountains provided the solitude Grainne desired, but they lacked enough sufficient resources to sustain herself on, and thus she was relegated to merely visiting their peaks when she desired deep, deep solitude. That was what she craved after her visit to the silent pinnacle of the gods and the inquisitive infidel therein, after reuniting with a child long lost and newly found. It was a chance to breathe, to recollect herself in the aftermath of so much interaction after so long left bereft of even the smallest socialization (though it was also by her own will, mind). So when the shadows lengthened, vanished, then shortened, she left her refuge on high and began a slow descent back down to the wild moors of Denocte. She could smell the wind in the pine when she left the barren mountain peak, could smell the ripe ferns and lichens of the mountainside floor, the musky odour of a cat's territorial marking. All of it collided into a rich and loamy scent that further settled her nerves, a gentle stroke down her spine that she was home, and no matter her wandering nor her allegiance that it would always remain home.

   So when the sharp, crisp and sunbaked scent of a decidedly not Denocte stallion jarred the air, it almost immediately set her temper at edge. The witch debated simply skirting the scent, taking one of the riskier paths to avoid the stallion as he was on the gentlest, smoothest path... but she would not risk injury, not this high up in the air. So she pressed on, weaving gently through the rough and jagged pines until she saw him... but he did not see her, not yet. His attention was turned to Denocte below, a beautiful and sprawling sight under the noon sun, but an even better one in the gentle kiss of twilight. She watched him take in the view for a long moment, her temper cooling, until her gaze took further stock of him. Those scars... they were either the scars of one abused or one who fought vicious and violent, and considering his musculature.... she could very easily guess which he was. Of course he was Solterran, they were a foolish lot that fought when so much more could be earned if they but learned to accept aid and open trade rather than seclude themselves and declare none were strong as they who braved the desert heat and terrors.

   "You should be more cautious, Solterran, relations with your kind and Denocte are strained, and this terrain is treacherous indeed." She finally called to him, making her way down the wind-tossed path towards the pale stallion, her lilac eyes hooded and her thoughts veiled as she watched him. Her threat was empty, of course, she herself was rarely one to resort to violence (although such underhanded tactics were quite her favorite), but she was curious to play with this warrior, test his mettle and see whether he was redeemable or simply another desert-borne fool with a head too hard and wits too small.