[open] inconspicuous - any

[Anaxarete]

YOU CAN HEAR WHEN THE HEART STOPS. These lands had changed… But she hadn’t’. There was some bitterness, buried deep, for the loss of the lands that she knew. Yet she knew her magic was powerless to restore them.  There were some things that were even out of her reach. She wondered if this would be the time that she’d return and all her past connections would have gone.  Not that it ever really mattered.  Sentiment was one of the first things to crumble away into nothing. Perhaps there’d be some fun in being unrecognized.  But no mirth registered on the cold woman’s face. She stepped nonchalantly over spring flowers.  Shadows swirled around her fetlocks, completely illogical in the midday sun.  Beqanna had changed significantly - the land and those who called this place home.  She probably stood out more now - unremarkable gray and battle scars.  No vivid colors or markings. No horns or frills.  Just a small, nondescript mare.   Though those who knew anything about this place knew that looks could be deceiving.  The shadow-mare was still unsure of her role in this reformed world, but she didn’t worry. She had all the time in the world to figure it out. - A N A X A R E T E - been there, done that

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[Castile]

The sunlight is fire tracing his skin, burning him as he steps from the umbrage where he has most often frequented. His eyelids squint together as the brightness blankets over him for the first time in months. The mere taste of blood in his mouth frightened him enough to find solitude. He no longer trusted himself. For the past couple of seasons, Castile imprisoned himself where there had been darkness mostly, nothing to set aflame the monster that stirs within. It was quiet, morose, but he forced it on himself until the need for punishment subsided.

The blood on his coat has since rubbed away, the taste of it nearly forgotten.

When he steps forward, the sense of normalcy almost settles over him. There is still a small flame flickering in his gut, threatening, foreboding, but the reeling of his thoughts keeps the pit in his stomach subdued – at least for now.

Nothing of the meadow has changed except perhaps the scents and figures. Karaugh is no longer an entity thumbing through his mind and commanding him. He is left unbidden and unbothered. The prospect is unsettling, but it doesn’t stop the forward locomotion of his body. Castile’s steps are slow, calculative, and they draw him away from the bustling and conversational knots to instead find a quieter companion that overlooks the meadow with mild disinterest. The obsidian shadows swirling around her legs do not skip his notice, but his mismatched eyes quickly find the gaze of a woman whom has seen many years and whose life has experienced many tales and experiences. In comparison, he is likely an infant, but it doesn’t stop him. Curiosity drums in Castile’s heart as he edges closer. ”You aren’t new here,” the words helplessly tumble past his lips and there is no recovering them. ”I’m Castile,” no title, no victories, no greatness; he is only a name.