In the low light her blue eyes sparkled, illuminated by the moon’s smile as she gazed around her, memorising at much of her destination as she could map in the darkness. Much of her surroundings seemed to prairie lands, overshadowed by mountains turned black in the darkness. Very little cover she noted as the dock grew smaller behind her.
With the wind blowing in from the sea, no doubt carrying her scent toward any who might fancy a wander up the coast, Castalla sees the other mare before she smells her. Slowing her pace politely, though minutely, Castalla observes the taller femme’s approach with the keen-eyed suspicion of one used to being attacked by strangers on shadowy roads beneath the darkness of a night sky. Nevertheless her gaze and face was imperceptible, devoid of emotion but for the faint smirk across her pale lips. Already, upon instinct and habit rather than any actual aggressive intention, the rogue had mapped out several modes of attack and defence, scanning the dark mare’s walk and frame for strengths and weaknesses. One could never be too careful, not when there were at least a dozen noblemen, crime-lords and even a King who would pay a pretty price for her, dead or alive. Hunters were everywhere, all shifters knew that. Instinct didn’t care that this far from Alanaris there would be no one who knew her name, no one vying for the King’s favour by capturing the renowned White Wolf.
Once the femme was close enough, Castalla noted the muscle that ordained her frame, the body of a warrior who stood at least a hand taller than she, and yet her head was low, acquiescent. The Wolf had to fight the urge to raise her own, to give into the officious instincts that plagued all the dominants of her kind. Instead she remained neutral, tipping her head slightly to one side as her silken locks cascaded down her scarred neck. A small smile graces her own lips in response to the others, polite enough, perhaps even friendly.“Thank you,” the assassin responds politely, dipping her cranium in a respectful gesture. “Castalla,” she adds offhandedly, not interested in proclaiming her royal bloodline in such a foreign place. “What is this place... Denocte?” Castalla rolls the name on her tongue slightly, her accent a musical addition to the unfamiliar word. She needed to find out as much about this land as possible, including why her powers had diminished.
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