The predator right up until I'm prey.

It had been many months since the last time Valkyrie had graced the swirling black mists of the West with her presence, and back then, she’d been barely a brittle shell of insecurity, confused by the curse which had swerved the steady course of her life. She was better accustomed to the masculine angles of her lean, compact frame now, aware of her altered strengths—power over nimbleness, for example—and confident that she could still conquer the world and its brutish inhabitants. Hope had been but a small blip in her plans. The thoughts circling endlessly, calculating and clever, were still very much her own and seemed to be untainted; aside from the queer white fog of lost memory whenever she sought clarity from the past. If anything, Valkyrie felt empowered by the inheritance of such an alien, repulsive physique. Still, even despite the fleshy power now in her possession, she yet struggled to understand why the females of the world were so easily swayed by their narrow-minded masculine aggressors. In the distance, the young white Pegasus could see the outline of the old dead tree. The rain no longer felt like a clandestine veil to mask its vast impression upon the horizon, so she narrowed her path upon its direction and picked up her pace—shadow still tangled about her limbs like hindering deadweights. Though her hooves fell heavily upon the frost-laden path, they left no mark to suggest she had passed. The pastel filly held between her marbled teeth the handle of her beloved spear and as the frozen foliage of the vegetation surrounding Uwaritace swallowed her, the brazen-heated Shieldmaiden tightened her grip. Slowing strategically, she began to search for the thickset creatures her task required.

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Task: Rip a Galeae's brow-shield from its head.

the Rift

A dreary, gloomy afternoon casts grey blue light upon the Riftan king as he shoulders through the skeletal, entwined cover of blackened alder. Sovereign, noble -- his heritage is the mortal embodiment of brawn and competency -- in short, kingsblood. He (like his sire) is the head, the pilot of a modest harem; four wives, three daughters and one young (vulnerable) babe who still had to cling and suckle into a bodice. As their pod slips quietly into a misty, fog riddled grove of deadened, slumbering timber, they wordlessly fan outward from single file into one of lazy, triangular formation.

His stride upon that barren, indifferent frost is brimming with confidence -- a long-standing marriage of vigor and pride. The heavy, encumberous crown upon his brow is proud to tag along -- and his thick neck doesn't slump beneath it. Hard, predatory eyes are turned upward...they pivot constantly, while his vibrant blue nostrils swell open to sample the crisp, mirthless air.

This Riftan king is thick-set, muscular. But his plated bulk is riddled with ashen scars from previous victories and near death encounters; one fiend in particular carved out a chunk from his right forearm. Despite the painful maim, he doesn't favor that leg, mainly because ego (like the throne) demands high toll. Just behind his rump -- a small crowd of females murmur back and forth. Their voices rise and fall with soft grunts. He ignores their chatter...and shifts those sharp, yellow eyes to the rear. A king is charged to soldier every angle for danger, trespassers and...food. His harem isn't on guard, they've no urge to play at wary sentinels, a king of their breed doesn't need help. The crown is his shield, bodygaurd and companion.

Five years... he's given to them, led them, held the title of king. But youth is rapidly twiddling from his muscles; it shouldn't be long before a son (whom was run from home just before maturity) would arise to claim the throne. Or perhaps (and more likely) the king would encounter a foreign upstart...the pair would fight and his reign, his legacy would dissolve.

At least for now...fate is kind to this aging warrior...

There was a feather light change in the marbled shadows, the alteration was so subtle it could be mistaken for heedless whitenoise, but the veteran is on guard...he takes notice...testosterone floods the alarms which blare off in his frontal cortex. A deep throated, warning chuff emerges -- billowing above his head in a collective, decaying plume. He rigidly halts, stamping his left foot and effectively/simultaneously quieting and freezing the chattering women. They peer around, widening orbs homing upon the point their mate/father was fixed.

The pastel mare too froze in place, stark bright stare set upon the group which had been ambling beneath her silent watch, between the dim, dead-looking wood of their home. It was an entirely different world now, gripped in glistening frost, stalagmites clinging any horizontal surface yet strong enough to support the weight of smooth ice and for the most part, Valkyrie felt quite at home. Her skin trembled wildly, though not for the chill of the ageing day, for her coat by now had thickened into a cosy woollen rug, mirroring the anticipating drum of her rising heart rate; adrenaline seeped slowly through her veins, calling heat and readiness to every joint, each limber ligament, and tendon against bone. The rash-minded Shieldmaiden was eager, filled with brazen courage and stubborn determination. It wasn’t immediately clear whether she’d been seen, only that she’d been noticed; his thick skull swivelled above apparently neckless shoulders but seemed not to focus the face towards any true direction. Valkyrie shifted her weight slowly, carefully, without severing her eyes from the target—the hairless beast at the head of his harem, the glorious shield crowing his ugly face. For as long as he remained there, she too waited, battling the barrage of scenarios rising to the forefront of her mind: launching forward with the element of surprise to back her, skirting them and picking off the rear… Nothing seemed clear, however. No single idea stood out above the rest. The adolescent was growing impatient, eventually recognising the sting of danger and rebuking it bitterly. In a bid to feed her own self-confidence, she pulled free a selection of gratifying memories, victories on the slopes of Sunnmōre, monsters evaded in the Rift (and men, their cockiness beat down), so too the time she had sacrificed herself for magical reward—this encounter too, would be honoured with power, the ability to persuade. A smile slithered slyly into the soft, rosy point of her cursed facade. No gain without pain, she reminded herself silently, encouragingly. The winged-ones teeth fastened around the leather binding her spear. It occurred to her suddenly, that the Galeae’s focus had centred, on her. One white satellite swivelled backwards apprehensively and the opposite fore-hoof did the same. Valkyrie strained to think of something that would split their united strength—a diversion. Fixing her ears towards the group, she pulled her eyes clear and searched the far side for a loose object, rock or stick perhaps, and found rather more interestingly a tree further afield still with trademark black back and (if she tilted her head slightly), the wink of something smoother nestled between grooves. A Deviltree!… she almost blurted aloud, biting down hard on the tongue that sought to betray her loose guise of stillness. Summoning forth the magical energy in her blood, she willed a charred-looking stick—probably its own—to lift and smack the surface.

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Notes: Valkyrie is trying to wake Gem Fairies.

the Rift

Thud! A furious chirping noise blares suddenly from the pit of that victimized ebon tree. Thud! Ash limbs rattle and bits of ice crystal and hard pellets of snow are thrown erratically, cast to fall around the base of it. Thud! The last blow has instant consequence – a furious cloud of gem drones lift from their winterized nest. Their small, triangular (gem coated) wings buzz with a low, audible hum – their tiny, needle-like teeth click, chattering furiously.

The Riftan king turns his massive, plated head toward the familiar, tantalizing noise. His stern, unyielding mind can’t possibly puzzle your trap – he sees only the nourishment of his continuously luck. A loud, demanding chuff ascends his lips, billowing upward. The females, his harem, take immediate cue – they break formation and stampede boldly toward the buzzing, aggravated noise – their eyes and bellies are tunneled, fixed helplessly on a singular promise. Food. Meanwhile, their King lags behind – sharp eyes rotating between the marbled, alien specter and his beloved charges.