The first she knew was a soft thrum beneath her feet, the earth whispering of new circumstances, an encounter inevitable in this empty expanse. Although she could have no idea if the tidings were good or bad, a strange anxiety seized her, tensing through her shoulderblades to seem to paralyse her entire frame. It could only last a second, but it felt longer and was in any case long enough to know that the oncoming element was nearer - too near to be an innocent beast passing by. She turned slowly, head high, a deep instinct telling her to provide a facade of bravura. Surely there was nothing to worry about, here in these permissive lands that were nothing like the tyranny of her home - but she had always been told about the evil that dwelled in the wild, and a small puppy-sized part of her probably still believed in it.
The silhouette - definitely coming her way, now - was broadened by a luxurious fur cloak and elevated by a horse of crystal-silver, the brightest thing in any direction. How Caspa detested horses, and now had good reason to resent the mare's presence. She had no possible escape route, unless she could turn the metal at her feet into a flying machine. She had to trust to another silver lady, Luck herself, that no such thing would be necessary. Observing the billowing finery of his bear-fur and his elegant manner of riding, she told herself to relax - this was no barbarian. He'd halted now, but she did not hail him. Perhaps he'd mistaken her for someone else, and would be on his way any moment. She crossed her arms, holding her elbows and lacing fingers into the thick feathery fur that grew there - and then her grip tightened to wrench at the fine hairs: he was coming closer still, and looking directly at her. Those eyes - they were predatory. Sternly, Caspa made herself face him without a quaver. Surely, despite his mounted superiority, there was no reason to fear him any more than any other passing wanderer.
The scene was tending toward tiresome now, though - his already drawn-out approach broken off once more, the horse stopping with unnerring obedience, and still no word from her obsidian master. Only the wind whistled: even the ground had stopped its hoofbeat hum. Her hands were at her sides now, hands curling into half-fists, and the moment threatened to become strange and unnatural if left too long. Caspa felt it urgent to say something - anything, although usually she was the last to despise reticence. Strangely, she felt she needed to justify herself today. "Peace be on your journey, my friend," was her incongruous phrase of greeting, a hand briefly reaching for her pendant then falling down again. It had been a long time since the life of a pilgrim was all she had, but now it seemed she desired to invoke that pious spirit, perhaps for the sense of protection it granted. The next moment, a regretful tooth bit into her lip and she fought the urge to just turn and leave, with her amicably pacifist words still hanging in the air like a spell.
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