The wounded shade has returned to the place which brought her forth into this crazed abyss. The white general had
recruited her from this place, and the witch is determined to take her mind off current events by doing something
actually productive and finding a quarry with which to haul back to the world of spectral's she has come
to respect. She has not yet been healed, but she hopes that if she pretends
the burns across her flesh do not bother her, that her prey will not be too affected by it.
Children learn from the expressions and words of other's, after all. Perhaps it will do well to adhere to these
simple facts.

And as if the universe loves to toy with her, it is filled with hellish warmth. Was the God of Mischief - If there was, indeed, a God of Mischief - playing games with her?
Whatever the reason, she did not appreciate it. She is burned, so now, does he want to cook her? It frustrates her and she grimaces.
If it were not for the fact she aches, and the sun is trying to roast her alive, she would find the day wonderful. Sunlight dapples her metallic coat,
she is glad at least the werewolf's acid had not ridden her of her lovely heritage. It would be nice, still, to take a cool dip in a pond..
It is then that she hears her prey. Or, her prey, hears her, and thus interrupts her. She needs to concentrate more, being a noisy
spy isn't going to get you anywhere very fast. With a pause, she collects herself; forcing her grimace to turn slightly upwards into what she hoped was a kind
smile. Was her hair alright? A brief rush of panic as she pray's it is. It has to be, she takes immaculate care of herself when she is not
being burned to death. Burned to death? Ha ha! She was burned once! It was by a werewolf, has she told that story already?
Who is she even speaking to? Does one need a reason to speak to one's mind? It's their own mind, be damned the one's who cursed her for it.
This is why she adores the marsh. It is all insane, insane creatures with insane abilities and ghouls that rip the flesh of one's bones if they
are not careful. Pull, sink, drown, suffocation, it's all very nice she thinks.

Her steps begin again, a elegant brush of dark hooves against speckled earth. Violet's search, find, and lock unto their prey.
It's a lovely little childe, porcelain and slender as a dancer's build. Apparel the shade of strawberries and blood, to her joy. The tuft's of the femme are violent red,
gleaming in the newly birthed sun's light. Golden and blue, the orbs speak. And yet, with all her little bumps, a point is subtracted from the total score. The femme has no horn.
Then again, her blood queen has not one weapon, and she still respects her. Perhaps the little rose can grow into a thorn bush, do her people proud.
She slows to a halt near the rose, a wider smile spreading across her maw. Lyric's fall in sweet bursts, she is not letting the quarry escape. She hopes that her charm will do the trick, but she will lie if needed.
"Little rose, you have spread your leaves far into the forest. Have you lost your stem, my dear?"

CREDITS

tagged: @[Cancer]