She had only ever known a life soaked in salt, blood, and stinging sand. To be trapped on all sides by earth and trees was a trial meant to break the will of those lesser than herself; even now, under the thick canopy of trees and nearly impassable bracken, Minthe refused to be beaten. She was flanked by two escorts, males called Spyridon and Abraxas, that she refused to acknowledge unless necessary. Of the three of them, only Spyridon knew the way to the illuminated shore of Ankyra Sound— but Minthe was the leader of this journey, and it was her test to pass. She had taken no direction from him, but relied on the directions given from her High Priestess.
If she reached the Sound, she would be named an Adept of the Nereides. If Abraxas could return alone to the Coast to deliver the message of her success, he would be allowed to live. Minthe had no doubt that their party was trailed by Amazons of Themiscrya; if she failed, the sirens would kill her escorts, and she would be exiled. Although she held little regard for either male's life, failure was not an option. She would be an Adept, and she would be an Amazon.
Minthe was tenacious for her age, and devout— but her upbringing did not erase all signs of her youth. They were nearing the end of their journey, she knew, but she missed the Mother Sea; each day without the scent of salt in her fur, her mood darkened. It was nearly unbearable now, with the trees blocking the light of Mother Moon, and the earth beneath them smothered in obstacles. She loosed oaths beneath her breath, snapping at any cold and dead wood that dared block her path, snarling at those that dared to draw blood from her body.
"Perhaps we should rest," Abraxas suggested nervously, knowing it would not be well received, but also knowing that his fate was tied to her own— and that failure for him would be fatal.
"You push yourself too hard."
She turned to face him, teeth bared and bloodied from a laceration upon her muzzle.
It was strange, so very strange, to be heading in this direction for the second time in his life. Spyridon had not expected to return to Ankyra Sound. As to whether or not he wanted to, the consort had never considered it. His wants, his desires, were nonexistent, sans his dedication to the sisters of the sea. His mother and grandmother had raised him well. Or rather, they had raised him to be a mindless follower to The Nereides. He did not, of course, share their name. That was reserved for the women of the religion that some found strange.
He had been instructed to stand guard over Minthe as she made her journey. Spyro did not (would not) give her direction, but he would be here should they become the target of some malicious force. Spyro shared the feelings of being lost, though he had not voiced as much with his ward.
Abraxas spoke, and even if Spyridon hadn't been able to understand the foreign (to most) tongue, he would have known by Minthe's reaction that the consort's words were uncalled for. "Fool," Spyro said in fluent Greek, stepping between Minthe and Abraxas, facing the other consort. "Not your place."
If not for Spyridon's intervention, Minthe would have killed the other insolent male without a second thought. She was not insulted by the older male's move to stand between them, for Abraxas was his ward; as an elder consort, respectful of and obedient to the ways of the Nereides, it was his responsibility to ensure that other spawn were as well trained. And if they were untrainable, it would be his duty to kill them. If Minthe had opened Abraxas' jugular, it would not have reflected well upon Spyridon.
With a final snarl in warning, she returned to face her original direction. Minthe would reach the shore of the sound, even if it was only to breathe her final breath and die upon its sands— she was certain of it. Even now, the Sea called to her blood and beckoned for her to return to Her embrace. If only she could escape this terrible forest, to be once more under the gaze of Mother Moon, then she could use the stars to guide her.
Her eyes turned up toward the canopy, searching for a break in which she could find some constellation to guide them. It had been a tenuous hope, but Minthe still felt the sting of disappointment when there was no break large enough in the cold boughs to give her the answer she needed. "Ησυχία," she ordered her escorts, whether they had or had not been making noise, and with eyes closed she now listened.
There! Up ahead, she could hear the faint trickle of a water flow; a sound she would have missed, had Abraxas not caused the group to pause. He would receive no thanks for it, however. "Εκείνη μας ευλογεί. Εμείς πάμε με αυτόν τον τρόπο," Minthe told them, her love for the Mother swelling in her chest and causing a bittersweet ache. Upon reaching the stream, they would be able to follow its current to the ocean.
Abraxas said nothing, seeming to realize his mistake. It wasn't as though Spyro was particularly offended or displeased with the younger consort. Hell, Spyro barely knew what emotions were. Consorts were there only to serve the sisters. Any punishments or scoldings were impersonal, meant only to guide Abraxas toward the correct behavior. Spyridon did not hold a grudge against him. He was still learning, after all.
He had heard the stream, and relief flowed through him when Minthe recognized the sound as well. Spyro's tail twitched ever-so-slightly from side-to-side. Getting back to the sea would put him more at ease. Spyro motioned for Abraxas to follow the sister, and he did so without hesitation.
She was unaware of Spyridon's relief, though she felt it, too; without the scent of salt in her nose, Minthe felt incomplete, and the crystals that usually dusted her coat had long since faded. If they were to encounter another wolf, their heritage would be unknown. She felt wilted and weak. Pride would not allow her to admit it, but until the stream had called to her, a small part of Minthe had been convinced they would die away from the Sea and Her shore. For her soulless body to be given to the earth and not the Mother would be a fate worse than death; it was the Nereides' concept of Hell.
She was still young, not yet a year old, and so her relief was palpable. Her facade of strength and stoicism crumbled as she began her advancement anew. No longer did oaths escape her lips; Minthe was now filled with a joy and an eagerness. The stream told her they were close; or at least, that they had a path toward the Sea. When sands cushioned their paws, it would be a simple journey to the Sound.
She did her best not to look to make sure the consorts followed, though she dared a brief glance over her shoulder. Abraxas did not matter, but Spyridon would be a gift for the Sound's Queen.
Satisfied that Abraxas would not act out again, Spyridon focused his attention on the young sister. Having been born and raised amongst them, he knew that there were times when the youngest ones were some of the strongest. It was true that the younger ones could be bullheaded, but through their mistakes, they would learn the finer ways of life. Spyro had witnessed it again and again.
He did not know if Caiaphas would be here. She had, after all, left them without so much as a word (if Rem is recalling this correctly). He had been poised to give Aella children, but that plan had fallen through when the pack dissolved. He faulted no one, though he had mourned the loss of Kevlyn. The spawn had been one of Spyro's better pupils.
The consort averted his gaze when Minthe looked over her shoulder. He was proud of her, even if she was not his to be proud of. She was a sister, and Spyro had always been proud of the culture he had been born into, even if outsiders did not always understand their ways.
Their journey would continue, and before long, they would reach the glowing shores that Minthe had dreamed of; the symbol of her ascention to Accepted, when she would truly be worthy of the Nereides name. Her remaining lessons would be bestowed by a wild Siren Queen, different and perhaps fiercer than those residing within Themiscrya— or so she assumed, for her head was filled with visions of a culture both famililar and tantalizingly new. Althought Spyridon was no stranger to this new Queen, Minthe would not hear of his tales; for how could a consort, even Epivitoras, describe a Queen with justice? Consorts were flawed, even the very best. And so, but for the bitter corrections she must employ upon her escorts, they continued in silence, with Minthe renewed in vision.