Having decided Novus was as good a place as any to settle for now, Castalla was intent upon exploring as much of it as possible. It had been a few days since the scarred rogue left the Night Court realm, skirting around the Arma mountains as much as possible. With the land well and truly in the colourful grip of autumn the mountains would be nearly as treacherous as it would were it between the icy claws of winter- without her full magic the shifter did not wish to risk her neck needlessly. Instead the Wolf had crossed a series of open fields, the grass flattened and the ground trodden as though a war had once raged upon its expanse. Castalla could have almost heard ghostly cries of battles, the grunts and crashes of combat. But it had remained empty, open and exposed beneath the frosty air. A few elk had wandered across her path, but many turned tail the moment they had set eyes upon her. Though she walked in the skin of prey, there was no denying the air of a predator that lingered in the scars across her pelt and the shadows in her eyes. Had she wanted, the assassin could have walked with the hesitant, the wide-eyed wonder of one who had not seen the darkness she’d witnessed. She could have been anyone, such was the nature of her training. In silk she could be a princess, in rags a simple street-urchin, a soldier clothed in armour or an entertainer with a wandering band. Her skills were both a blessing and a curse, being able to walk seen yet unseen. But few rarely, truly, saw
her. An odd feeling of loneliness had overcome her then, an all-consuming tidal wave that had washed away as swiftly as it had come. Since Skender’s death, Castalla had spent much of her days, her weeks and months, alone. And since then, even the moonlit caverns of Nightfall’s fortress had not felt like home, as though their beauty had been ephemeral, momentary. Or perhaps it was her that had changed, a ghost of her former self wandering the caves in silence. Castalla had left the Bellum steppe then, turning south to where open fields gave way to rising trees and reaching roots.
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Sunset had been and gone, darkness descending like a foreboding blanket over Novus. But to Castalla, the shadows were her friends, her cloak and her mask. The night was a cloudless one, the stars gleaming merrily amidst the darkness, yet for all the silence f the midnight expanse, the swamp was a booming orchestra of sounds. The chirp of crickets and the croak of frogs arose with the thick scent of stagnant water and musty grass. Castalla was beginning to wonder what on earth had possessed her to take the swamp path, her hooves squelching uncomfortably with every step. It was not to say that the princess would not get her hands dirty- she’d emerged from battles coated head to toe in mud and gore without a care for her appearance- but the way the odour clung to the strands of her damp hair, the locks beginning to curl in the humidity, she longed for a bath. A grimace marred her otherwise alluring features, frustration evident from the clipped motions of her trot to the gleam in her ice-blue eyes. Was there an end to this gods-forsaken marsh?
CASTALLA
You are a weapon; and weapons don't weap
