When Darius had left, Aurora let the innocent mask fall, what was left was the cold, hard expression of someone truly descended of Balthazar the Black.  She fingered the pendant, feeling curiously exhilarated following her exchange with the knight.  Was this what her grandsire felt like when he abused her, as his slave?  Was this the sweet wine of domination?  Oh, if she had but the time, she would live out some of the images he had given her, involving herself and her maids (sniveling stupid things, make them cry drink their tears, make them serve me me me<strong>ME</strong>), but she would have to delay that gratification.<br/><br/>Aurora left the healer's wagon, returned to the point in the caravan where her own possessions had been stored, and, as the caravan was split as Darius carried out her instructions, adding the weight of his rank to those that protested, retrieved her personal possessions, donned her riding boots, and her horse, ready in half of the time she had given Darius to prepare to depart, waiting impatiently.