It felt like home.
The biting chill followed her ascent, wind whipping and buffeting her frame during her venture. Every step was taken carefully, every hard hoof seeking out steady purchase with the natural-born skills of one who was born in the frozen tundra and cresting mountaintops, who knew how to waltz upon the edges of a crevasse with poise and confidence and zero fear of falling. The entire journey, from the Gods-forsaken desert of Solterra to the blustery mountaintop of Veneror reminded her of the Aurora Basin, and for a few hours, she could pretend that she was home.
Solterra had not been kind since her arrival. She struggled to adapt, not mean for sun and sand. It was too hot for one born of mountain ice and northern lights. The people there were boring and plain, and it was slow. So. Fucking. Slow. Were it not for the simple sake that it was now familiar, Rhiannon would take her happy ass elsewhere. Somewhere less drab. Maybe try and find a way home…
Except… There was no home. Not anymore. It was gone from her grasp forever. The beloved mountains, the pristine lake, the caves she had grown up in, the many gatherings of her Plague-brothers and sisters… They were all gone, lost to her, stolen away by the son of a bitch who had, in a sick and twisted humor, decided to keep her alive and not just let her die with the land she had loved. Instead, she was stuck in a desert with little to do but knit using aloe plant and palm tree fibers because the damn place was so fucking slow that no one wanted to even get hurt and give her something to do. Disgusting. Boring. Pointless and a waste of her efforts.
(Not that she had efforts of a healer in the first place. She was a war mount, bred and created for bloodshed and domination, for warfare and manipulation. Rhiannon had zero fucking skills in healing anyone, but she took up the position as Caretaker because why the fuck not?)
The winter cold seeped into her body and settled into her bones like an unforgotten lover. It was intimate, winter’s embrace. It was like coming home, and Rhiannon had half of the mind to simply remain upon this mountain rather than go back to the desert. No one would miss her. There was nothing for her there. There really wasn’t anything for her anywhere in this Novus. Not for the first time she thought about just letting death take her and be done with it, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she denied it vehemently. The brindled devil was not so desperate as to resort to suicide, but if a boulder fell from the sky and tried to crush her where she stood? Well, she wouldn’t necessarily bother to move.
The mar of darkness continued her ascent, hooves coated in ice, hair frosted with snow. The thick curls of her mane and tail hung about her like heavy weights, bogged down with snow and moisture. Whiskers were frozen, but her ears were alert, eyes narrowed and keen, and her posture rigid and proud. Here, she was in her element. Here, others would bow before her. Not even the Gods, if Novus even fucking had any, could bring her to her knees.
Ironically, it was then that she found the entrance. The snow ceased the second her hooves stepped upon stone instead of thick snow, echoing upon a chamber that had been carved out of the side of the mountain. Molten-gold and frozen-silver peered in through the sparse light, narrowed and haughty. The fuck was this place? Giving her body a mighty shake, voluptuous muscle and curves rippling with the action, she rid the excess snow from her coat and ventured confidently inside. Her steps are measured and even, eyes roaming the grand hall and taking in all of the sights. It was a beautiful display of craftsmanship, one that she could truly appreciate given her craftsman heritage. The mortar work was exceptional, and despite the fierce chill outside, it was oddly warm and comfortable.
Arriving to the heart of the chamber, Rhiannon came to a halt, eyes narrowing. Before her were small candles lit at altars, each one representing what…? But almost immediately, she realized just where she was. It brought forth memories of a vibrant, hot blue-lava filled crater, where the greedy and the desperate sought out power. It reminded her of the Veins of the Gods, the slab altars, ash and heat so potent and thick in the air that one felt as though they were choking. This must be the Novus equivalent of the Veins, a sacred place where others brought offerings and prayers. Looking around, various items were strewn upon the ground before each statue; rocks, feathers, flowers, various plants, some personal items… Things that obviously meant something to someone, but Rhiannon didn’t see it. Didn’t get it.
The Gods meant nothing to her.
“… Ya’ll stand there,” she muttered, the odd, masculine baritone of her words cutting through the otherwise peaceful silence of this mountainside haven, “Silent. Absent. Bearing over your precious Novus, watching the world work itself out. I’m not yours to command. I’m not from your land.” Their rules, their commandments, meant little in the eyes of one such broken and bitter as herself. Despite knowing that no one was listening, the brindled beast went on, her words maintaining that low bass.
“I had Gods, once. They died. Gods can die. They stood up for our home, tried to protect it, and they were murdered. There is nothing holy or reverent about you. You aren’t immortal beings.” She had seen it, with her own eyes. The Gods of Helovia had been killed. The Gods of the Rift had been killed. How long until the Gods of Novus joined them? “I didn’t ask to survive. I wanted to die. I want to die. There’s nothing for me here. This land is nothing to me. If you are listening, if you are out there, then send me some kind of proof that I should stay. Otherwise, I…” Rhiannon trailed off with an audible clack of jaws shutting. Otherwise, well. She just wouldn’t have to worry anymore.
Silence reigned supreme once more through the hollow antechamber. For a long while she stood, a black disease amongst something so holy and revered, but she didn’t care. Rhiannon had long since lost the ability to care. Finally, she gave a snort. Loud and disruptive, cutting through the silence. Of course, she was met with no response. Letting out a breath, the she-devil twisted her head and pulled a few feathers from the many that were tied into her mane. They were her trophies, her prizes, stolen from the many Pegasi that she had fought, sparred, or killed. Stepping closer but not bothering to disperse them between each respective slab, Rhiannon let the feathers drop from her lips and onto the cold ground.
“… Here. Don’t fucking think too much into it, though.”
She still didn’t give a shit.
Rhiannon wasn’t too sure how much longer she stood there, in a place that might be far too pure for her corrupt self. She hadn’t been smote yet, or set aflame. Maybe there weren’t any Gods. Regardless, the weaver’s daughter decided that she would remain here until she felt ready to leave it behind, and given the fact that this was the only place that reminded her of the cruel landscape of her birthland, she knew that she wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.
