She had watched the wasteland fall into the sea. It was with no small amount of satisfaction that she had watched the waters surge forward, claiming that desolate stretch of earth foot by foot, until nothing had remained but the lapping of the waves. Some had died. Many more had not. She had even welcomed one into the midst of her home.
Her objection to the land had not been the land itself (though certainly that had been bad enough), but rather those who had deigned to call themselves its leaders.
Unfortunately her satisfaction had not lasted. It had given her nemesis the opportunity to disappear, even from her prying sight. And now she can only stare at that empty expanse of ocean, her sight futilely seeking out that one face in a sea of thousands, the disgust and unrest only growing in her breast.
So it is with some satisfaction that she had torn down those trees, exposing the magician hidden there, even if he had nothing to do with her disgruntlement.
It does not surprise her when, with a huff, he builds back up what she has torn down. She is certain he could not have been pleased to be so rudely exposed. Even so, he steps from his poorly chosen den before sending it up in flames. An act that only serves to increase her amusement. His rumbled response, low and filled with a note of danger, does nothing to dampen it.
Instead, she quirks one equine brow, the cool blue of her gaze lifting to find his darker one. There is no fear there, no alarm, nor even much sense of self-preservation. Instead she murmurs a softly humored, “Actually, I do not believe it is I who wanted your attention, but rather you who wanted mine.”
