Like her mother, Carapace finds it calming to walk the territory borders. There is a sense of control--not quite power, but purpose--that adds a note of regimented certainty to a day that might otherwise be lost to idleness.
And Carapace has lost quite some time to idleness, of late. With the spring thaw she'd found her thoughts wandering and her judgment somewhat affected by the sunshine and promise of the season, and as so many of her kind do in the spring, she'd wandered straight into the grips of a buck. A handsome buck, she thinks ruefully, but rather less... tolerable than she might have accepted in other circumstances. Fine for a dalliance, though, if not friendship material. Fine enough that she has begun to feel the signs.
She is so young, still--the thought worries her. But what worries her more is the idea that her offspring might take after their arrogant father. An inward sigh. Funny how attractive that same peacock-y vanity is when one is feeling the need for a romp, and how unattractive it is in retrospect.
While thus consumed by her thoughts, Carapace becomes aware that her movements are being shadowed. She feels no fear. She listens intently for the signs, so slight before that she had nearly missed them, and sure enough, a grey eaglehound materializes in her wake before much longer. Its eyes gleam blue, and ephemeral wings, shaped, it appears, of light itself float alongside it.
"Good evening, ma'am," says Carapace without breaking her stride, tossing a look over her shoulder. "They've already warned me that you may be coming to discuss developments to the South, and so I am not afraid."
The light steps of canine paws become the crunch of hooves, and the next time Carapace casts a glance back she meets the skeptical eye of a weathered old mare. The doe draws up to a halt.
"Lost in thought is a bad state for a sentry," Bitterleaf snaps. "Fearlessness too, for all that."
"I'd heard," says Carapace in mild surprise, "that you advocated fearlessness."
"I advocate courage, not an absence of caution." The wings flick irritably.
"Then I accept your reproofs with a contrite assurance that I will improve my character." Carapace's voice is soft, and she smiles. She doesn't know Bitterleaf well enough to be afraid to employ a bit of gentle humor, and this endears her almost instantly to the old b***h.
"What has you lost in thought? Allow me to pursue your patrol with you, as I am not one to be distracted." She falls into step beside Carapace, inviting herself in thoughtlessly, as though no one could rebuff her even if they desired it. The doe lets her have the fantasy. A single threat, a single call, and the entirety of the Vale would be on the mare's neck.
"Springtime," she answers.
"A powerful distraction to a doe your age, I imagine."
"It has been, yes."
"Has been! So this is no planning, this is reflection."
"They say your kind know that without asking."
"Only some of us, and only when we try. I do not try, usually. It's nosy as hell."
Carapace smiles, tossing her long hair from her face. "Well, you've found me out regardless."
They walk in silence for a time. "Will you not, then, do what other does do, and ask me for my blessing?"
"We have our own," is Carapace's gentle reminder. "I may have already sought hers. Or anyone else's, for that matter."
"But you haven't," says Bitterleaf with confidence. "You didn't know until recently, I am sure. And here I am. Conveniently."
"I'd heard you were more sparing with your attention, and felt disinclined to test your patience."
"Spring has an effect on people like me too. A different one. A certain feeling of... I don't know the word. Generosity?"
"Magnanimity?" she suggests, and Bitterleaf flicks her mane from her eyes.
"That."
"And your vanity is wounded by my refusal to ask," suggests Carapace gently, and Bitterleaf snorts, as much surprised by her forthrightness as angered by it.
"What happened to not testing my patience?" she snaps. "And then to wheel around and make an insult against me. Shameless child. Who are you to question me?"
"I am myself," says Carapace peacefully. "I question that which wants questioning."
"You'll get yourself into trouble with that attitude. But you don't live among my people. You don't, perhaps, know better than to go running your fool mouth at me with your reproaches."
"Forgive me. I had no intention of disrespect."
"Of course not," snorts Bitterleaf sarcastically. "It's a good thing, then, that you have your own, as you say."
"How easily I have fallen from your good graces. I'd thought you approving of me, despite my distraction."
"I'm not beyond appreciating a little sass out of a fiesty young thing," says Bitterleaf, old lady that she is, "but I draw a line well before true disrespect."
Carapace stops, and Bitterleaf wheels to face her.
"I apologize then, ma'am," she says after a long pause, her face as unreadable as her mother's skull. "And beg you allow me to make up the slight."
"So you will ask, then," says Bitterleaf triumphantly.
"Indeed, if it--if it's not too much." That's not what she'd been about to say, and Bitterleaf knows it. But suddenly the mare grins.
"My reputation," she confides, "is getting entirely out of proportion. Don't fear me, child, but don't tell them I said so. Go and tell them I rained a hail of fire on you. But for yourself, and for your children: may the fears you have for them be unfounded."
"My fears?"
"Every mother has her fears. What are yours?"
"That they will have their father's vanity and their mother's lack of judgment," Carapace admits, finally, and Bitterleaf laughs a salt-rough laugh.
"Then let them have neither, if the Swamp is willing. Now come--take me to whoever is ready to hear my news."
"Thank you, ma'am," says Carapace, and she, too, allows herself a laugh. "I'll let them know you came down like a stormcloud."
"Do that," says Bitterleaf indulgently. "I'll spare my lightning from those who spread my warnings."
They walk into the shadow of the trees, Carapace's swelling sides illuminated in the faint blue glow of Bitterleaf's wings.
