A dancing figure loped across the horizon, her performance immaculate and fluid. She was a stocky mare, and she was bold and proud. She was the Spanish Eyes. This one could tear a tree down by its roots, and could she win a match by brute strength. Yes. It may sound like boasting, yet Escastia was herself. This equine figure, which continued her ballroom escapade to these alien floors, was a dancer. Why, it may be asked, would a creature take life in such a manner? Did she not know of plagues, disease, and wars to be fought later on in her lifetime? Was she not compelled to rush forth past the others, shoulder them away, and stake a plot of land for her own? Do not be foolish. All these instincts riddled the mare's mind, as were to be expected. Ah, but Mon Cher, she was a flashy one, and knew alternate procedures in order to get what she required. Where others may win their matches with strength, she accomplished through his queer methods of rhythm. The melody constantly flowed through the vibrant mare. These fancy limbs, so animated in their leisure, would propel the agile cavalier in circles around her foe, striking out in quick haste before pirouetting out of harm's way. Or, if a fair stallion should catch her eye, Escastia would perform her flowing waltz towards him, hoping to woo him to her side. Yet that was only a play. No, this mare, though not as tall, nor weak as the "normal" around here, would leave her mark on these lands. The effortless motions would make any student of Julliard swoon, and she had all intentions to get the same grade here. Silently the creature watched as the fiery orb of the sun lost its battle to the ever-present night, finally giving in the omnipotent moon. It was rather odd that the most epic stories of Earth were based on this simple concept; that of the light versus the dark. In most Hollywood films, the light always conquered the dark, even if it suffered a few casualties. Unfortunately, this was not Hollywood, and in real life, the dark always beat the light. Pondering this, the wanton slowly steps out of the advancing shadows tatters of the remnants of lights slowly slipping away in her wake. The ignoble's pelt is a crimson silver, the shade of the moon behind a cloud. The female's amber eyes are veiled with concealed thoughts, and her face is a mask of stone. There is nothing to betray the pulse of blood through her veins except for the occasional blink of her shuttered eyelids, which are the color of the dawning sun. Ever so slowly the mare ingress’s upon the new terrain, wary of all that could betray her. She glances around, regal neck curving in an attempt to see the unknown; after all, who can tell the future? Hooves slowly fall, the terra muffling any sound that might have slipped in the darkening night. The beast felt more at home in the shadows, for night was the time of the Hunter. She was the Hunter, and would seek her prey with unrelenting fervor, never to give up before achieving her conquest. The wan framework seemed to sulk beneath the asylum of the intimations, a solitary carriage via the hinterland that impended aloft the weald, which inclined mildly with the squall. The duplicated mote fricassees tacitly as sinewy tentacles scuttle atop the arid flora, prongs flexing. Her arrival is made. Oblique flanges quake, decrying equine timbre, nostrils pilfering the embroiled cologne of numerous equines. A subsequent footfall is reverted, falling instead upon a worthier candidate, branding prestigious upper crust with accompanying ovate initials. Viscous consistency sweeps posterior, faded filaments congregating in spectrum shoal, seeking territorial division. Innate vial is simply yielded upwards, maintaining a specified elevation as candle-lit lanterns scrutinize the uncultivated sea. The radiant energy casts a lustrous spectrum over the presiding knoll on which a solitary formation is supported, casting an illusion of nigrescent apparition, as infiltration into dominion is achieved. She uttered a paramount broadcast to this impinging oracle, which, luckily, seemed effeminate enough. Her tapering cochlea retrogressed a notch, their transient rest-site lost in a flurry of bodily propaganda. Angles incline mildly atop her arid flora, strawberry pennons hovering over the wan framework that seemed to skulk beneath the asylum of intimidations. Now it was the Spanish Eyes's turn to speak. The Huntress had come home. Heavily pregnant with the foal deemed to be a sibling of Queen Asphyxiate, she hobbled along. Ravens! I have returned... And here she halted, if she could have, her eyes would have opened agape. ah, the teenager. a bundle of hormones and scathing words, fights in know-it-all tones. and the inevitable truth that lies beneath the curses and insults. and, within his heart, she knew he was right. right in the most raw terms, and it shook her to the bone. she shivered as a waft of wintry wind combed her coat, roughly and battering in the oncoming blizzard. the departing form of her duplicate faded farther into the dusk, leaving her only a mother who had made the wrong decisions in the arms of the father who had watched it helplessly. she didn't blame her ravenglade, for she now saw clearly that the entire incident rested solely on her shoulders. catapult had blown her logical thinker's fog from her mind, swept it away violently and shakingly. the weight dragged her down. but alas, she raised her head sharply, a crescendoed soprano emitting. she followed her with amber eyes, then closing them and releasing a long sigh. her mistakes had been great, and the price even greater. she took herself slowly from ravenglade's embrace, sending a hopeless glance into her caring eyes and a forlorn nudge towards her shoulder as she brushed past to disappear into the cloaking forest. the pain was eating away at her, and the hardest part for her to realize is that she had been wrong; deadly wrong. apolegetic glance is sent towards the raven's form, misty in the snowfall, as she slipped into the darkness. reaching a clearing, she rested her heavy bulk, heavier now with the weight of the accusations placed upon her, against a tree. she released a long sigh as she allowed herself to slip downwards to rest against the still-dry leaves and pine needles at the base of the oak, needing a rest. careless glance is cast around, only now noticing that this was the very same glade, the very same tree that conflaguration had been against at his return from his prolonged absence. and now she realized that she wasn't forgiving enough. she was too logical, too overthinking. it had sent her over the edge of a chasm she had come close to before, and now she wasn't sure what would happen. her ravens, her dear ravens, had come to close to the edge. she spat out her words breathlessly, angered at herself and another equine she wished to remain nameless. Ravens! Malice! Shahada! Insane Asylum! What...w-w-where, when, WHY? WHAT HAS HAPPENED! Death...Malice, Insane Asylum, Shahada... The words spun in her mind. Where are you?! Come here...NOW! And then she realized it was pointless, her dearly loved had gone, gone to a better place, a summerland. But no, it couldn't be true! Escastia...do not take time to worry over yourself, and a sigh was released. My ravens, your ravens...come here. Listen to my words, words of the somewhat elder...but in knowledge I am immortal. Mourn for those lost, and those betraying us shall personally find hatred and pain where they find it most unwelcome. But be strong! This fall is not only ours, but the whole dimensions. We shall prosper, bask in love and glory as we once did. And now for my prolonged words...Retribution, I gladly accept to add you to my short list of allies. I am proud to carry your name alongside Asphyxiate and Conflaguration. She nuzzled him gently. Dishonesty, welcome home. Forgive me for the delay. Entropy... and she paused. Congratulations.

ESCASTIA
ai! aniron...
ah! i desire...