Shrike does not falter when the path grows darker and darker, when the air turns bitter and the leaves begin to curl. She does not shy when the stem blooms into a garden of nightshade, or when the garden produces a mare.
She is no stranger to this kind of magic; she is no stranger to mazes and dream-things (and nightmares, too).
The painted mare says nothing, only watches, only listens, as the dream-mare speaks. The expression in her dark eyes, on her pale face, is unreadable; maybe there is disappointment there, or loneliness, but neither of them have anything to do with the maze. It feels as much like home as anything in Novus. Perhaps that is why there is something like sorrow, a weight across her sturdy heart.
Only when the maze-mare explodes into nothing (nothing but petals and scent, light and darkness, sound and void) does Shrike toss her head, paw a rut in the black-smelling earth like a bear might. Still she pays no heed to the others - they are strangers to her as all have been in Novus, all but the ones she knew from the rift-lands. Shrike only steps forward, something feral and wary in the shine of her eyes, the curve of her nostrils.
When she glances to the left path she dismisses it at once. It smells too sweet, sickeningly so, and the mare wants nothing to do with it. Not the color, not the smell.
So it is down the first path she turns, only pausing for a moment when the first mirror catches her reflection and casts it to all the others down the line. There she stands, wary, scarred, stoic. She watches herself grit her teeth, turn her red ears back - and take first one step, then another, down the path.
—-path of mirrors
don't do much these days
keep the wolves at bay
keep the wolves at bay
