Remaining stoic, Astarael does little to hold back the full force of her terror. The mare is weak. Defeated. The abuse she had received left her bloodied and swollen and her head hung low, her muzzle nearly touching the soft of the earth. Not far from where they stood the soft gurgling of the lake's surface could be heard above the normally deafening buzz of insects. The world around them almost seemed to hold its breath, ears trained to catch the exchange between the mares.
Circling once more, Astarael felt the weight of her unborn child within her. Gazing upon Wound, Mortem's infidelity did not come with waves of unsuspected surprise. Before his death, he had visited their prisoner and, it seemed, their tangle had bore fruit. It seemed the clown had beaten Maugrim to the treat between her legs. The demoness rolled her eyes at the predictability of men.
I must admit that I expected more of you. Astarael mused as she halted just before Wound. She clicked her tongue thoughtfully.
The red fog that surrounded them grew thicker and Astarael smiled wickedly as she watched it tangle around the blackened creature. Fear had become a concept the queen did not recognize. Without its grip upon her she had been freed and emboldened. Its relief was intoxicating and she breathed it in deeply.
Tell me, Wound, do you know why you were chosen to be kept here?
Astarael suspected the the little Tephran thought her capture to be unprovoked, but it had been her seemingly innocent encounter with Belgaer. Intel was hard to come by and, in that moment, she'd hungered for the knowledge she hoped the little mare could give. It was her brother's undying loyalty that had been her inspiration - it was only pure happenstance that she would also be a favorite of Warrick. A victim of her circumstances, Wound had placed herself directly into their hands.
@[wound]