It is no small wonder that Anastasia had hardly been the most social of her siblings, her preference so oft swaying for the companionship of herself rather than that of her family (aside from her father, she supposed) or the gaggle of other noble children that so often cluttered the banquet halls of her family's palace. It was a nuance of her personality that had accompanied Anastasia into adolescence and, it seemed, one that was immune even to the upheaval of death. Her independence and apathy towards the majority of established social constructs were, perhaps, the primary reasons that she had taken to Alexander in the manner that she (eventually) had. That, of course, and the iron will that both King and Duchess seemed to possess down to the very marrow of their bones.

The petulance of the young Were does not come as any measurable surprise, though, for surely this was to be expected of one still very much ensconced in the cacoon of their youth. And so does Anastasia remain perfectly statuesque save for the surreptitious simper perched just so upon her lips as Calliel spits her venom. It was peculiar, truly, for some part of Calliel reminded Anastasia so much of herself as she had been in the years following the demise of her family. How many times had she spat her own venom at Alexander? How many times had the venegful amalgamation of anger, sorrow, and obstinacy blinded her to what she could have been... to what she would eventually become?

It would come to pass. It always did.

"Do not sulk, Calliel. It is unbecoming of you," she issues flatly, hardly attempting to hinder the young girl from the chores she had set herself about the stable, rather choosing to indulge in a meandering stroll in Calliel's stead. Unfettered does the Duchess traipse the line of latched wooden doors, the crackle of wayward hay sprigs acting as a backdrop to the pregnant silence between Hunter and Were. The auburn-haired woman gives pause before a single door, behind which towers a remarkably exquisite stallion. As white as untouched snow upon a hillside, heavily muscled... just the same as her family's cache of equines had always been. A touch of nostalgia, marked by its brevity, skates its tempting finger over the thoughts that flit about her brain as the stallion in question leans his massive head beyond the boundary of his quarters in order to nudge coyly at her shoulder. It is a moment severed, though, by the musing of the sullen blonde. A musing that is not readily indulged, at least not verbally. What were they supposed to be to one another? What had Alexander intended in his unwavering determination to see the pair of women united? Was Anastasia to be the budding equine's teacher? Her protector? Or was this, perhaps, her Maker's ploy to impart a lesson upon Anastasia herself?

An amusing consideration... truly.

"You are not supposed to be anything to me, nor I you. We have no arrangement with one another until we choose to. And even then I shall come and go as I please; I am sure that you will do the same." Her tone is one that is not unkind, though it leaves very little room for misinterpretation of meaning. "Now," she continues, "I hardly believe that you come here just to tidy up after the horses. Why don't we stretch our legs, hmm?"

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia