Coming from a land where she was hunted because of the blood that ran through her veins- doubly so thanks to being both a princess and a rather notorious assassin- Castalla was slow to trust anyone. She was suspicious still of her fellow Denoctians, keeping much to herself though remaining polite in conversation, if a little hesitant to shed light on her history. As of yet, she found no cause to believe shapeshifters were hunted in Novus, but that did not mean she would be welcome should the citizens of any court learn about her abilities. Magic seemed rife within the land- celebrated and revered- but the same could be said of her homeland. It is an honour, until it’s a shackle. That was the very essence of magic in Alanaris. Those blessed with abilities to manipulate things like fire and earth- elementals they were called- were safe, blessed. Witches, Elves, Seelies, even their crossbreed offspring, Fae, all lived in tenuous harmony with the mortals. But shifters and mermaids? Deemed monsters because of their likeness to werewolves and sirens. The definition, the objective yet wholly inaccurate classification with which her society decided who would be hunted and who would be free, it was cruel but so engrained that many took it as a sport. Perhaps she should not have left, perhaps she should have stayed, continued her mantle as the White Wolf, taken down tyrants like Oranus. But where had that got her? She had suffered unspeakable malice, tortured both physically and mentally, and yet the regime had remained. Granted, Alanaris was free of an evil king but it had changed nothing for her people.
Was Novus in the grip of such tempestuous politics? Did peace hang upon a precipice, thrust ever close to the edge by acts of attrition? Perhaps it was foolish of Castalla to wander beyond the realm of the Night Court without first learning of relations with the other kingdoms. The rogue knew at least that she was not restricted from walking the borders between the lands, or so she had gathered from the careful observation of her new herd-mates. Though undeniably cunning, caution was hardly the assassin’s strong suit, if tensions were arisen among the different courts, she did not fear walking the land of another. Call it reckless, call it prideful, but the Wolf knew her own skill, unless an army ambushed her she did not doubt her ability to evade death or capture. One did not go through the kind of training she spent years undergoing to not be able to protect themselves.
With the stale area remaining uncomfortably still and much of her vision obscured by the dense foliage, Castalla did not notice the flaming mare as early as she might have liked. Nevertheless a flash of light accompanied by the call of a distinctly feminine voice drew her attention away from the mud surrounding her legs. Intrigued, though on alert, she twists her form as elegantly as one can whilst caked in sludge from the elbows down to face the other. Flames greet her vision, twirling and dancing on an absent breeze, framing a pair of strong wings. The woman is swathed in pale fur like she, equally tainted by the marshland’s paint, but where Castalla’s eyes are icy blue, hers are a piercing red. A smile pulls the corners of the other’s lips upward, an unreadable one that Castalla can’t help but wonder what is conceal behind. The assassin allows a smirk to curve her own lips, eyes glinting from beneath dark lashes. Castalla does not know the courts’ scents readily enough to discern the mare’s place of abode, but she recognises the Pegasus to be no Night Court citizen. The flames engulfing the frame of her wings reminds the Wolf one an elemental Elf she had met on occasion, a fiery creature by the name of Nova Ignicia who’s hair danced with fire and who could conjure wings of flame.
The woman’s use of the word ‘friend’ did not go amiss on the White Wolf and faint amusement flickers within the cold depths of her sapphire eyes. There was a grey line between enemy and friend, Castalla quite often found herself admiring those that would inevitably betray her. The ferocity with which this mare carried herself and the knowing grin upon her rose-tinted lips was certainly something the Wolf could respect.
“Oh I would not say lost,” she begins, her voice indulgently demure as she inclines her head and smiles- she would never admit to being lost even if she were, such weakness was not allowed. “I may not know what lays beyond this infernal bog, but I know how to retrace my steps.” Clearly the other woman was familiar with the swamp, no matter how much she stood out from the dull foliage around them. For a moment her attention is diverted from the flaming woman to the bird that alights upon her ivory rump, a creature often depicted in legend. Castalla herself had come across only one other phoenix in her life time, rare as they were, and couldn’t help but tip her head to one side and admire the bird with restrained curiousity.
“Can’t say I’ve seen my pretty face in any swamp before,” her eyes gleam with the playful quip as she returns them to the Pegasus. “I wouldn’t say you look at home in all this mud either, but I gather you are from around here?”
@Israfel <3
