Time had taught Mephisto that peace was a fleeting thing. It is war that drives the unstable sands of time, and the world is constantly in a state of morphing and shifting into something new. And so, in the hour that the dark spy came to Novus, she is unsurprised to learn that the world was plunging into chaos. She may not know the why or the how, but it was clear to see the land had been ravaged by something (or perhaps more accurately, someone). It is not her place to ask, but there is a nagging sense of curiosity that fringes the dark stare of her eyes as Mephisto waits on the border of the clearing, listening.
This wasn’t her party, and she certainly hadn’t been invited... but there is something that draws her still to the growing gathering. Midnight eyes flicker from one beast to the next, observing the personalities which emerge at Asterion’s call. Some bark anger-tinged words of war, others hold a meeker presence, but they support the kingdom all the same. This place was not so unlike her home at the Winter Court. Of course, blood had painted the snow red there too. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold. There was something poetic in the rebirth of a place, she supposed.
As Asterion offered titles and words of encouragement, the blue black Pegasus listened with little more than mild curiosity. Since she is a creature without a beast in the fight, the announcement holds very little consequence to her… but the astute spy begins to assign names to faces as each one steps forward and offers his or her piece. There is an order to the suggestions. The warriors speak out – and it’s easy for Mephisto to pick them from the crowd, with their armor and barbed tongues. Though technically, she could be fit into the soldier box as well, Mephisto fought a much more refined battle of wit. She was in it for the long game, to watch and to plan, to execute only when the timing was perfect. Hers would be an assault to the mind, for the dark mare is far more illusionist than tactician. It took all types though, she knew, to win a war.
Only once each had spoken in turn does the stranger to the Dusk Court step forth from the shadows, sunlight pelting her black and blue pelt in an assault on the senses. She blinks against the golden sheathes of light, scowling some as her blue eyes shield downward to block the too-bright sensation. She does not speak, but simply gathers herself and walks a bit closer. Still apart from the herd, Mephisto waits to see if they would address her – not adding her pledge of fealty… but not shying from it either. Should they ask for her service, the dark mistress would at least consider it, given that she had nothing else to fight for in this strange new world.
This wasn’t her party, and she certainly hadn’t been invited... but there is something that draws her still to the growing gathering. Midnight eyes flicker from one beast to the next, observing the personalities which emerge at Asterion’s call. Some bark anger-tinged words of war, others hold a meeker presence, but they support the kingdom all the same. This place was not so unlike her home at the Winter Court. Of course, blood had painted the snow red there too. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold. There was something poetic in the rebirth of a place, she supposed.
As Asterion offered titles and words of encouragement, the blue black Pegasus listened with little more than mild curiosity. Since she is a creature without a beast in the fight, the announcement holds very little consequence to her… but the astute spy begins to assign names to faces as each one steps forward and offers his or her piece. There is an order to the suggestions. The warriors speak out – and it’s easy for Mephisto to pick them from the crowd, with their armor and barbed tongues. Though technically, she could be fit into the soldier box as well, Mephisto fought a much more refined battle of wit. She was in it for the long game, to watch and to plan, to execute only when the timing was perfect. Hers would be an assault to the mind, for the dark mare is far more illusionist than tactician. It took all types though, she knew, to win a war.
Only once each had spoken in turn does the stranger to the Dusk Court step forth from the shadows, sunlight pelting her black and blue pelt in an assault on the senses. She blinks against the golden sheathes of light, scowling some as her blue eyes shield downward to block the too-bright sensation. She does not speak, but simply gathers herself and walks a bit closer. Still apart from the herd, Mephisto waits to see if they would address her – not adding her pledge of fealty… but not shying from it either. Should they ask for her service, the dark mistress would at least consider it, given that she had nothing else to fight for in this strange new world.
