Voice of the Wayfarers

Alex sat with her eldest childe, running her fingers over the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, over and over, as if trying to understand it, trying to derive some truth from it that it hadn't already shared with her.

"Will you be upset if I marry, Ellis?" She asked, eyes distant, voice trembling with sorrow and- fear? Nervousness?

The man next to her considered for a long time, and eventually shook his head.

"No," he said, "I won't. Those of the Monachal Creed will be, but it isn't them that matters- it's what is right in your belief."

Alex nodded, and considered the ring again.

"I don't know if I can love him like he does me."

"Has he asked you to love him like that?" Ellis countered, without scorn, without judgement, only the question on his lips.

"Well... no. He hasn't." She paused for a moment. "And I don't think he will."

"How do you see him? What is he to you?"

Alex closed her eyes and considered her lover, his eyes, his words, his hands, his heart before her. There would be no other like him, and that thought struck her speechless for a moment, as Atalanta before Meleager.

She opened her eyes, and smiled shakily at her childe.

"He is... my equal."

Ellis smiled in return, and put his hand on hers, and she wondered at the touch as he spoke.

"That is a good start. In fact, that is an ideal start. You must reflect, though, and contemplate. Pray if you will. This is not an easy thing, and you still have your year and a day."

Alex leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, Ellis. You always have the best advice for your sire."

Rosethorn sighed softly as she drove through the dark and heavy night. The rain spattered against the windscreen as she cruised, just above the speed limit, shaving precious moments off her journey towards mercy and forgiveness.

Her gaze wandered from the rearview to her traveling companion. Slumped against the passenger seat, deep in sleep, he didn't look like a powerful commander of life and death, nor like the other half of her soul- he looked old. Like a man who had lost his daughter when he had died the first time, like someone who had plumbed the very depths of being a scourge on the Awakened soul, like someone who had split himself in half to save someone too stupid to save herself. It was all written on his face, it curled his hands, and instead of making him look strong and relentless, like mortality and flawless lead, it made him look small and troubled as he slept.

For a brief moment, as she realised both his and her own weariness, she wondered if she was insane, flying down a dark, wet road to help someone who had, to all sights, been nothing but spiteful and hateful to everything she believed. Why did he deserve her, the both of them? Could it be a trap? Why was she leaving her home, where she was safe from all but the breaking of her heart and the echoing silence?

Then, as the moment of doubt passed, she knew that both she and her travel companion had to go- that they could sooner stop the world turning or the rising of the sun than turn away from this duty. A call for forgiveness had to be answered, and a confession of fear had to be negated. The message was clear- he was afraid for the sanctity of his soul, afraid that he would never see the light of the Supernal again, not in this lifetime or the next, and that could not be allowed to stand. Some things were more important than personal comfort or rest. This was one of them

Rosethorn sighed again as she wound down the window to take in the night air, hoping that the cold wouldn't wake Darcy up. As the lights of Melbourne came into view, her eyes darted to the cake box nestled safely behind Darcy's seat, and she whispered into the night wind.

"Hold on, Jack. We're coming."

Magic is Beauty.

Rosethorn tapped her pen against the desk, trying to get her thoughts in order- more difficult than expected when her eyes felt like they were rolled in sand, and her fingers drooped. But she couldn't sleep, no, not yet. Needed to finish writing.

Magic is beauty. Or perhaps truth, she continued, not really thinking as she wrote, but it is channeled by the flawed and the imperfect, like the Christians say the Word of God is.

"So far, so good..." She muttered, rolling the pen between her calloused fingers for a moment before continuing. Contact with the world of the Pentacle would meant she had to get her thoughts straight, before it became 'Burn the Apostate' again, before she forgot the things that she loved in the face of the parts of her people that she hated.

Whatever we do with magic is tainted by our own hubris and stupidity and desire to use it to our own ends and will, not will of the world or the Supernal. Magic is not good or evil- it is our actions that make it so. Magic is a glorious, dangerous tool that should not be put into the hands of the unready

She blinked, startled by her ugly thoughts, and firmly slashed out the lines she had just written. She looked at the paper, almost torn through by her frantic strokes, and doodled a final note at the bottom, before going up to her garden to rest.

I am not a Banisher. I love magic too much. I am not a Banisher.

Alright. So I may have been bitten by the Masquerade bug. I'm not sure if she's going to see the light of day, or what sort of approval level I'd need for the stuff I want her to know. But here she is.

"What are you doing here, 'Lees?"

The girl looked up, startled.

"Oh, Michael, hello... This is a library. I can't be here?"

"Of course you can, 'Lees, it's just it's after close."

"It is?" Her brows furrowed. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise."

"I didn't even see you come in, 'Lees, and i've been on the desk since I got here. How did you-"

"People don't notice me a lot. Your books are still in the wrong place."

Michael sighed. He knew that 'Lees wasn't quite right, but she was quiet, and didn't make a mess- far from it, in fact, he'd had to tell her several times that people were allowed to spread their notes a whole desk if there was space. But she knew the Dewey system better than he did, and kept insisting that it was wrong.

"You keep saying that, honey, but people expect them to be like this-"

"Only because that's what they've been trained to do!" She interjected, eyes glittering. She rose and ran her fingers across the nearest row of books, as if she were afraid of hurting them. "Just think. What are the schoolchildren studying at the moment?"

He stopped, and considered.

"Well, I know Liverpool Public is doing Settlement, as is Marsden Road..."

"You could move the Australian History books to the front here, like this-" she gestured, hands flying, "And then, if Liverpool Girls is doing that study of the Roman Republic you mentioned last time, you could put the books here, and move the stuff for the adults towards the back, because they're more quiet and patient and would appreciate the isolation, I suspect, from the little ones who make so much noise while they're searching."

"It's a cute idea, 'Lees, but then we'd have to move the books every term, if not more."

She blinked and looked at Michael with utter confusion.

"And? This is a problem?"

Michael sighed.

"Look, 'Lees, you need to go home."

"Alright, yes. It is past close. I am keeping you."

"Yes, you are, as much as I love talking to you. I don't want to find you in here when I come back around, alright?"

"Yes, Michael. Have a good night."

Michael went back to the front to tidy up the paperwork there, and return the held books that hadn't been claimed. When he went back into the sitting area, even though he hadn't seen her leave, 'Lees was nowhere to be found.

---

Elise Winton climbed down the ladder beneath the library with the utmost care. The book she had been reading was tucked under her other arm, and she didn't want to drop it. Sometime, she thought as her feet touched the damp stone beneath her, I will have to look into a proper bag to carry books from the library.

It had taken a lot of work to find her little study. Many of the libraries were new, and their secret places for the treasured, dangerous books that no one was supposed to know about had frequently been destroyed by uncaring, unknowing builders. Finally she had found one that had been preserved and was undiscovered.

Forty six steps later, she slipped into her home as the door clicked shut behind her. She went to flick on a light, and made a soft noise of irritation as the lamp didn't come on.

"How irritating." She murmured as she eased the old batteries out with her practiced fingers, "Must find more batteries tomorrow, mustn't be without spare batteries for the lights. That would be foolish."

Once the lights flickered on again, she carefully put her book down on her desk, square with the corner. Even though it was a mundane, somewhat obscure book about the evolution of Mesopotamian pottery, she had read it years before, and a note about some of the patterns on the latest era of samples had surfaced in her memory while reading her latest acquisition, and she had just wanted to be sure...

Ahah. Yes. A small pictogram on a fragment, no more than a shard, all but forgotten. It looked somewhat like a scythe, but the curves were in a style unknown to scribes of the time- or most of them- and to scholars of this day- or most of them, as well.

It had cost her a lot to get the small, yellowed book she nursed carefully in her two gloved hands like a child, and would cost her much more if anyone found out that she had it, but it had already proven worth it.

Here was evidence of the Ba'hara, or perhaps the root language that it had been born from. Perhaps there was more to be found for the clever scholar who knew what they were looking for, more light to be shed on the histories of those that had birthed her kind.

With painstaking care, she set the yellowed book in a padded stand so that she could read it, and selected a red pen to make her notes with.

"Chaosti?"

"Yes, Two Stick?"

"Have some of the followers of Lion asked to join you?"

There was a pause.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because that would explain why a fully grown male lion companion, who is ethically opposed to my companion, has decided that my lap looks like a good place to lie."

"Oh yes. That. Two Stick, we're going to have some followers of Lion accompanying us."

"Oh. Goody."

---

The next morning, Two Stick reminded herself that every arm and heart to the cause was a blessing as she climbed aboard her floating disc. Still, she just didn't agree with the indolent, glory-hungry ethos that many of the Lion tribe had displayed.

She looked at the newcomers with scrutiny. The younger two were obviously siblings, and their little sparring matches and tousles marked them as at least scouts, if not fully dedicated warriors of the tribe.

The third was a little older, and he seemed largely distracted. As he looked out to the western horizon, she noticed him clutching a set of pipes tightly in his fist. Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, but consideration

"You. Boy." She said, gesturing to him. Chaosti looked at her as the boy jumped a little.

"Uh, yes?" He replied, a little sheepishly.

"Come here."

He looked at Chaosti, and when the healer nodded, the young man loped over to her with a casual ease, an ease that was echoed by the lion that walked beside him. Two Stick noted dryly to herself that the lion seemed very pleased with himself, as if he had spent a large portion of the previous night having his mane brushed by a strange woman who wasn't strong enough to push him out of her lap.

The boy looked at her- on her disk, she came just to his eye level- and for a moment, she was lost in the past. His eyes were curious, but not the focused curiosity of one born to Sugar Glider. Instead, it was a dreamy, patient thoughtfulness that she was so used to seeing in the eyes of one who she had missed for many years.

He's a Diviner, just like StarCatcher was, she thought, Poor half-mad boy.

In the same moment, the human realised that he was in the presence of someone like him, only much more powerful, and bowed without taking his eyes from her in wonder.

"Come on, boy," Two Stick said, petting something that seemed solid in the empty air next to her, "I have a disk for you. You're traveling with me."

He scrambled up onto the disk uncertainly, expecting it to tip, or to suddenly vanish, and seemed relieved when it stood his movements.

"Good. Here's my first spellbook. Show me your pipes."

He reluctantly handed his treasured pipes to her, which she nursed with all the respect they were due, as she pulled out her beginners spellbook and handed it to him. He frowned at it for a moment, then muttered quietly, his fingers weaving a familiar pattern in the air.

"Ah. These are your pipes, right?" He asked, the confusion in his face clearing. "Now I can understand."

She looked at him sharply.

"That's right, you don't understand, do you? Give me that. Kirrit-" Her sugar glider looked at her eagerly as she took the spellbook back, and brushed her hands over him in a ritual gesture of understanding, "-teach the boy how to read. There's parchment and ink in my backpack."

The sugar glider skittered eagerly to his task, and Two Stick went back to her work. It wasn't until nearly noon that she realised she'd forgotten something.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Ah, it's Watches the Sun."

"Of course. I am Two Stick Lightning."

And this is going to be much more bearable than I expected.

OOC The names sound a little ridiculous, I know. Blame the Illumian name rolling system :P

IC
Woodwing Skirruk clung to her ferret companion, who chittered softly at her in concern. Woodwing Gauchel, who stood beside her, reached down and squeezed her shoulder. It didn't matter that Gauchel was physically her height and close her age, in Skirruk's mind, Gauchel was much older, and reached down to put his hand on her shoulder.

"You shouldn't worry so much, Skirruk. Now they know what you can do, Woodwing Noahlenkhur will be able to teach you." Gauchel smiled, but didn't sound very sure- Woodwing Noahlenkhur was known throughout the cabal for being haughty, quick to judge, and highly selective about his students. Their trainer, Woodwing Nahlehntra had called him a psion. Skirruk didn't know what that meant, but was still nervous about approaching him as they came to his rooms and knocked on the door.

The man that answered was tall and gaunt, almost to the point of emaciation. His receding hair was swept back into a neat ponytail, and his mouth was fixed in a permanent sneer. He looked down at the two young Illumians, and the sneer curled upwards into a strange, almost mocking smile.

"Good morning. I take it you are Woodwing Skirruk?"

Skirruk nodded, and forced herself to take a step forward and presented her hand to him with all the gravity an eight year old could summon.

"Yes, Woodwing Noahlenkhur, thank you for seein' me."

The older Illumian ignored her hand, and looked at Gauchel.

"You can go."

His hand tightened on Skirruk's shoulder.

"Woodwing Nahlehntra told me to stay with Woodwing Skirruk. In case she has an episode."

Noahlenkhur's nostrils flared, and from the workshop, his raven croaked with what sounded a lot like irritation, but he didn't argue- no one argued with the Training Mistress when it came to the care of her young ones.

"Very well. Now, little girl, what studies have you undertaken?"

Skirruk's brow furrowed.

"Studies?"

"Yes, child. What preparations for the psionic studies have you undergone? Do you know how to meditate? Woodwing Nahlehntra mentioned that you have manifested powers- show me what you can do."

Skirruk fidgeted. He was saying a lot of words she didn't understand.

"I got tol' I wasn't allowed to put my brain into other people's brains anymore, because it makes Woodwing Leasha ver' upset when I do that, so i'm not allowed to unless they deserve it."

"So, some form of Telepathy, then. What else can you do?"

"I... can't do anything else. Should I be able to?"

"Yes, you should. Perhaps you suffered more severe brain damage than we expected."

Skirruk felt Gauchel tense, and she clutched her ferret closer to her. Noahlenkhur raised his eyebrow.

"What on earth is that filthy thing?"

"He is my feerot!" Smiled Skirruk. She knew the answer to this one. "His name is Faroot! An' I cleaned him good. He jus' got away."

"A... what? Child, surely you mean a ferret."

"That's wha' I said! I am espanding the use of the word!"

Noahlenkhur waved his hand in an irritated fashion, and looked at Gauchel.

"I tire of this. Boy, tell Woodwing Nahlehntra to ask the Peacock to handle her. I have no time to train feckless, illiterate timewasters who have no inclination for the fine psionic arts."

Noahlenkhur sniffed and turned to walk away. Skirruk gaped at him, vision going red. Her shock was the only thing that saved him from her initial assault. Gauchel put his hand firmly on her shoulder. It was shaking.

"Skirruk, no! Nahlehntra said no!"

Skirruk bared her teeth at him for a moment, fully considering unleashing her power on her friend, before wilting.

"I don' want Leasha to be angry at me."

"It's alright. He won't be angry at you, dear."

Gauchel stepped forward, and tapped Noahlenkhur on the shoulder. He turned around into the boy's fist, as it came crashing into his face.

Skirruk gaped, this time in amazement.

"Um-mah, Gauchel. What did you do?"

Gauchel shrugged, massaging his hand.

"He should know not to call another Illumian illiterate. Especially when they're not."

OOC I know I said this last time, but I can't play this character. I may want to, but I'd never get the approvals through.

That being said, doesn't mean I can't write for them.

This is GC a whole lot more vocal and able to talk than after it got out.

IC
My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more...

Did you, as a child, ever look into the dark of the hall, and think you saw an old man standing, tall and silent, in a moment of sudden horror? Did you laugh, a little uncertainly, when you realised it was just the old longcase clock that your grandfather had insisted that the family keep? That was nothing to be scared of, right? Right?

I thought so, too.

It was caught on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopped short, never to go again,
When the Old Man died...

I was young... well, not really. I was becoming... something. A man or a woman. I don't remember. I came out of the hallway half asleep and started at the dark shape, as I had done so many times before. I laughed as I walked past the old, dark shape, a laugh that turned into a scream as it grabbed me and the darkness lurched.

Ninety years without slumbering, tick tock, tick tock...

He was Grandfather Clockwork. He had just been rewound, and needed a new thing to mark his time. He took out my heart, and replaced it with swinging brass. He took out my blood and my nerves, and replaced them with gears and steam. He took my body and made the insides whirl and grind, sealing it with something that might have been a promise of Iron. In the end, my legs, my arms, my chest, my sex, they were all gone- only my face and my hands remained.

Life seconds numbering, tick tock, tick tock...

He set me in his hall, amongst the wreckage of hundreds of others like me, with no shelter but the swirling sky. He walked past me all the time, checking his many pocket watches against my unfailing hands. I marked the time against the movement of the heavens, ticking off moments as the planets swung around. In the silence but for the beating of my heart, I came to know them all by name, and could trace all of their paths with the gears behind my glass eyes.

But it stopped short, never to go again, when the Old Man died...

His servants would not, could not speak to me- I may have been the most valued piece of furniture, but I was still a thing, rather than a person. But they spoke around me- explained to each other that every ninety years, to the second, Grandfather Clockwork wound down and stopped. His clock stopped too, as he was tied to it, as it was tied to him.

He had servants to wind the huge key at his back.

The clock, however, did not, and every time he was reborn, he needed a new one to mark the time.

My Grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time and had but one desire-
At the close of each week to be wound...

The servants performed the little maintenances- polished my wood, ensured my brass shone like the sun, wound the small keys below my heart. They knew that I was like them, but could do nothing as every day, I watched him grow a little slower, and behind my porcelain face, I started to panic.

And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face,
And its hand never hung by its side.
But it stopped short, never to go again,
When the Old Man died...

Then something changed.

I doubt I will ever know what happened amongst them, but one day they came with an axe made of stone, and gave me back my legs.

I could barely remember how, but I ran. I held the image of the hallway where I had walked as a child in my mind and I ran, counting the seconds under my breath as I moved.

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night,
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight,
That his hour of departure had come...

And in short, I am free. I can speak, and I can walk. I have my own body, my legs, my arms. Yet still I feel his heart ticking in time with mine. It is part of his nature that he wind down, that he kill another clock like me every time, that he may be renewed.

Now I am gone, he cannot. And so he seeks me, that he may kill me and die.

Still the clock kept the time with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side.
But it stopped short, never to go again,
When the old man died.

Not bloody likely.

Blind Stalker is dying.

It wasn't spoken, because it didn't need to be. His sight lost years ago, he still walked proudly and hunted with the ferocity of his totem. Tonight, for the first time, he was truly old, not a Chieftain brought low by the machinations of an uncaring totem, nor an elf fading to starlight and dust, but a man past his life expectancy in a savage, merciless jungle.

A man that happened to be her son.

A mother should not outlive her children. It is something written upon the instincts of those whose hearts go to walk outside their bodies, risking every day that those hearts will perish away from them. Even Fangstrike's death was logically accepted- he was only a boy when he married her, and they had had fifty good years together, but he was only human.

The Ancient One had explained to her, a long, long time ago, that in the beginning of all things, the Elves had been crafted with the eternity of the stars, and that their bodies were built on light that did not decay, only dimmed and eventually winked out. The human form, even those of half humans, were not made with such grace and patience. So it was that Two Stick Lightning's oldest son, who SHOULD have just been coming into his own, was courting death in every moment.

"I may live... another two, three years at the most. Not more than that."

She couldn't go to him, not until he called for his Urva in the traditions that he was raised with, for even with her fragile hands, she was afraid of breaking him- but when he called her Mother in the tongue of her people, she could not deny him.

She didn't understand the fear, or the pain just below her breast bone as his trembling hands encircled her waist briefly before she lowered her hands to his. It had hurt when Fangstrike died, but she had been prepared, and it was not unexpected, even to her childish mind, when Cloud Walker had been killed in the war.

Is this what Vara went through when Urva died? Is this what it's like to be human, full of such hurting all the time? Is this what it's always going to be like when people die and I do not?

Through her husband and then her son, the Tiger Fang people had been brought from the edge of ruin at the hands of the war to prosperity and strength- so much so that now the war was a distant tale to them, while still a fresh, stinging memory to the elves of Running Panther. They would need that strength and more to face what the River would bring to their doorsteps soon, too soon!

So she taunted the young, human children around her, most of them her grandchildren and her great grandchildren. She laughed and questioned their bravery and strength, knowing it would drive them to greater lengths to succeed, to grow stronger, and honour the memory of the chieftain. Their outrage was a moment's distraction from the heavy knowledge that she, should the good spirits be so willing, would outlive all of them, and that this was probably the last time that she would see her little boy alive.

1877

Alexandra was excited, and as a child she had every right to be- it was her eighth birthday, and her papa had told her that he had a surprise for her. After breakfast, he covered her eyes as he picked her up, taking her outside.

"Papa, what's outside?" She asked, ears straining to hear past the squalling of the chickens and the sounds of the men heading out for a day's work.

"You'll see, my poppet. You'll see." It had been years since her father had picked her up in games- he was strong, but she was growing to be too old for such things- but every year, without fail, he would lift her up in his arms and carry her outside for her birthday present. Mama always said that he spoiled her, but she smiled as she did so.

He put her down, still keeping one huge hand firmly over her eyes. She could smell the house-stables close by, for the valuable horses that Papa wanted to keep nearby of a night so he could keep an eye on them. She snuffled harder, trying to pick her location.

"Enough of that, missie, that's cheating!" chided her father softly, smile evident in his voice. "Just be patient until... now."

He removed his hand, and Alex gaped as a large, black nose came down and pressed against her ear, snuffling eagerly. The yearling colt whickered excitedly, brown eyes gleaming with glee. His strong chest and broad back showed him to be a workhorse of some kind, and his bay colouring made him handsome without being pretty like a palomino or cremello.

"Oh, Papa!" she breathed, amazed. "Is he for me?"

"Yes, Alex, he is," her father replied, clearly happy at her joy. "You've been doing well, very well with the foals. I thought you should have one of your own. He won't be ready to ride for a few more years yet- but then again, he is a Waler, so you probably won't be ready to ride him for a few years yet, either."

Alex tried to be serious and properly grateful, but she shivered like an excited dog. "Thank you so much, Papa! What's his name?"

"He's your horse to name, Alex."

She considered for a moment. "Rufio. Like from one of Mama's operas. Maybe then she won't be upset by him." Alexandra's mother had always disapproved of her 'frisking with the horses', and this move by her father would have upset Mrs Hamersley very much.

Her father nodded, and handed her some rope.

"Come on, missie. You should lead him around the yard so he can get used to your scent."

---

1887

Alexandra lunged Rufio around the training pen, clicking her tongue so that he came up to a trot. It took her a few minutes, but she realised that she had attracted an audience- one of the drovers was leaning against the fence, watching her work.

It didn't stop her, but she nodded on the next pass around.

"Afternoon."

He made a soft noise of greeting.

"You're very good with him. Even for a woman."

She smiled, even though the comment made her bristle internally.

"Of course I am. I am very good with horses."

"Mrs Hamersley doesn't like it."

She wondered if the man was mentally deficient- stating that her mother didn't like her only daughter- her only child- working the horses was like saying that the sky was blue. "Well, no. But Rufio, at least, needs my attention."

"Why do you keep at it, though? It's not something a man looks for in a wife, unless you're looking to marry someone like your father."

"I should only be so lucky to have a husband like my father. Besides, I don't believe that a woman needs a husband to be successful." Not since she had been corresponding with Dominique, anyway. The concept of women's suffrage had really ignited her imagination.

She led Rufio in, and he snuffled at her ear and shoulder, trying to calm his lady down. She absently reached up and petted him on the neck as the drover shrugged.

"You can keep those pretty dreams, Miss, but a woman don't have a place working with the horses."

Alex bit down a sharp retort.

"Well, perhaps when you're as good as I am, sir," she said firmly after a moment, "then you'll have a place to say such things."

---

1902

Alex stepped from the small coach, face tightly veiled, and walked through the place where her parents used to live. She had kept her eyes on her father's homestead since her Embrace, regretful that she had been forced to leave them behind, and had been forced not to act when the colds of the house became pneumonia, and with not enough money to consult physicians, half of the household had died- including her mother and father.

It was sad to see her mother's things picked apart by opportunists and gossips, curious to see how the Hamersleys had lived since the death of their daughter. She stopped, occasionally running a gloved finger over a china ridge, or the curve of a chair arm, but while it was sad, there was only one thing that she was here for, and that was her father's horses.

She passed through the house and out into the yard. A stockman was carefully leading the horses back to the stables. Under the veil, she smiled as she recognised the man that had told her that women shouldn't work with horses.

"Excuse me, young man," she said, dropping her voice so he wouldn't recognise it, "Is it too late to purchase horses?"

"Oh, pardon me, Ma'am," he said, clumsily tipping his hat, "But we've sold most of the horses of suitable temp'rement for a lady."

"I would still like to see the horses if I could, please." she said calmly, pulling the Beast back as firmly as possible. He looked at her, a little startled, his back brain telling him what his conscious brain refused to acknowledge, then nodded.

"I've only just started stabling them for the night, madam- it got dark very quickly, you see, like always this time of year."

She wasn't paying attention. She recognised many of the horses, if not directly, then by their colouring and confirmation as passed down through the line. She carefully went to each of the horses as she examined them, trying to decide who she should save.

There was a horse's scream of challenge from off to the side, and the gelding she was examining bolted. The drover looked shocked and worried as a horse came charging up to Alexandra, but he stopped from pushing her out of the way as the horse slowed, looking excited and playful in spite of his obvious age, burying his nose against her shoulder. Disbelieving, she put her shaking hand on his neck.

"Oh now, Ma'am, he'll hardly do for a lady." Said the drover. "He's been a bit funny ever since he lost his owner. But I've never seen him act so strange. Tell truth, we were just going to send him to the knackers."

She wanted to shout and growl, wanted to tell him not to dare touch the stallion, but again, she reined it in.

"What's his name?" she asked. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and her voice was choked up a little, but that only served to disguise it further.

"Um... What was it... Rupert... Rufus... Rufio. Yes, the young miss called him Rufio."

"Has he put forward any forward any foals? Do you still have them to hand?"

"A couple, Ma'am, but he's a savage, and they're only workhorses."

"I will be the judge of if they are fit for my stables, and I will take them."

He blinked at her.

"What... all of them?"

"Yes, young man. I will speak to the salesmaster and arrange payment and transport, if you please."

The stockman tipped his hat again, and walked back towards the house, his whole demeanour betraying his confusion. She turned her attention back to the assertive stallion, which her father had given her when she was eight years old.

"Rufio, you're alive!" She said, still not believing as she stroked his mane, and the horse replied by shoving his big, black nose, peppered with white hairs, against her ear again.

Mousie stormed into the encampment, radiating fury so much that every bum around the fire stopped and looked at her, trembling coming more from a deep-seated, animal instinct, than the bitter cold.

"S'everything alright, Queenie?" Asked Burt Pants, one of the braver ones, who had left his fear in bottom of a goon bag years ago.

"Yeah, nuffin you done need to worry about, Burtie," she almost growled, "Now gimmee the hooch."

The bottle was handed over with no argument, no mention that Mousie never drank more than the barest of customary mouthfuls, and she slumped down before the barrell fire.

Just a little, she thought, Just a little to keep the cold at bay...

"Why do people never listen to me?" she wondered out loud, every eye still on her. "Why do they always do stoopit things an' then they espet me to clean up after'm? Don' they know that chasin' after things in the night is DANGEROUS?"

The others around the fire tutted and shook their heads in despair, passing around what was left of dinner. They, of course, had heeded her warnings, and when something went wrong, when someone went missing or started acting weirder than normal, when they started having odd dreams of music and unearthly ladies, they told her straight away.

Mousie closed her eyes, and the memory danced in front of her, so beautiful and crystalline, like Selene and Liesel before her. There was no aching hunger in her belly or weariness in her eyes, and she saw Firebrand and Genevieve dancing, smiling- it had been so long since Genevieve had smiled that smile.

She hissed in anger at the intrusion, for all it made her feel awake and refreshed (through some dream poison, no doubt), and shoved it away. Erina had been snide to her about her paranoia, and Genevieve seemed to have missed the point of her fear all together. It SHOULD be common sense- it was certainly part of the rules. Don't gamble for your soul. Don't steal things from dark-eyed strangers. Don't agree to work a day and a night for a woman in exchange for all the gold in the world. Don't go following mysterious music.

Still, she was scorned, spurned and ignored by her court brethren and the people she loved the most for trying to stop them from getting hurt, or worse, Taken back. Well fine. If they weren't worth anything, even after all she had done for them, she'd keep her warnings to herself.