It should have bothered her more than it did. The fall of the Valley, loss of the only home she had known. Ashtaroth may have been born to Oukoku-Kai, but she didn't belong. Perhaps she was made for greater things. Maybe she wasn't created for any purpose at all.
Snow is novel to her, but not entirely unwelcome. The arctos in her blood is awakening, thickening her coat and obscuring the scratches on her side. The wounds she earned are far more minor than they have any right being, with what she was up against. Ashtaroth, barely a woman, had no place coming out of battle with little more than a taste for it.
"What do you want?"
The inclination of a sneer crosses her face before being smothered again, cursing herself for allowing the thrill of victory to dull her hyperawareness. Her gaze snaps to the speaker then, and softens, almost unintentionally. She decides on a coy smile, shifting the stance in her approach. It makes a little more sound, and she holds herself higher.
Crux is just as handsome as she remembers-- more so, as his form adapts to adulthood and the climate Bacchus was bred for. She wonders if he's still as entertaining to play with. "Some company wouldn't be remiss," Ashtar admits. Her voice has deepened, more from discarding her affectation of innocence than age. It matches the depth of her chest, but still holds the lilting accent inherited from Anamelech.
Ashtaroth pauses just outside a sociable distance, passing the responsibility of closing it to Crux. It's such a small thing, in the scheme of the world they're stepping into. It means everything for the rest of their lives.
If there is no grand design to the world, Ash has no qualms orchestrating her own.
