That morning Ghost had watched the sun rise, tucked away in the ominous shadows of the Deep Forest, facing towards the Thistle Meadow. The vibrant purples mingled with the blushing sun to create an all together pretty picture and for sometime Ghost wondered why that was, why something's were just... Beautiful. Mother never paid attention to things like this, the raw allure of nature, her progenitors vision of delicacy and fascination laid in the colour of blood as it painted the grass, the trees, the snow, the beach and the sky a macabre scene. There was a certain beauty in that, even Ghost could admire death, taught to close herself off from the world, it wasn't so hard to take life from others. Now, however, the world was changing. Her mother had left a long time ago, she had grown up reclusive, away from Helovia, and upon return she saw her homeland in a different light. Not one marred with her ma's constant whisperings in her coal black lobes, now she was free to judge and observe as she will, make her own decisions. Maybe she was losing her lust for blood, but the ebonite femme highly doubted that, there was still a satisfaction to be had there as her shadow blade ripped out the heart to hear it stutter and die.

Soft, like a death kiss to the wind, she had sighed and turned away from the capturing scene, finding herself roaming the woods well past midday and was still roaming now. This place was haunted, echoes of dying moans and blood curling screams were almost etched onto the warm breeze, it was Ghost's favourite place to visit. So much strife and history, this wood had seen a great deal of things. She'd curled her wings tightly into her sides, a splash of ashen and sanguine tipping the ends, her cloven hooves snapping moss ridden twigs whilst she ducked round burnished branches, strands of onyx mane snagging here and there. It was perhaps another five minutes before she caught the angered voice upon the air. At first, she thought it was the forest, plaguing her ears with a stallion's angered denial. The more she moved, however, the more she realized it was a real stallion, shouting insanity to the wind in a scream that sounded panicked.

She moved out from behind a cluster of trees and stared at the stallion, he was dusky like herself, marred in the same waxen and cardinal, but painted in different places. His hair a thin cascade of sickly white and his face looked diseased, history marking his face through haunted beryl pools, cutting off at the end of his flustered features. Lastly, atop his marred head, sat a proud crimson blade that marked him of, what her mother called, the superior race. Her mind raced back to the beach, a dappled mare and an awkward conversation, that day she had been scared to talk. Frightened to involve herself with others. Now she had learned, her mind still flinching at the prospect of contact with another creature, but Ghost understood this one better. He was trying to deny something she knew very well. Her expression was neutral, almost vacant, as she stepped forward into the stallion's line of sight before stopping a respectable distance away. She toyed with the idea that perhaps it was dangerous walking into such a situation, in the company of an irate stallion all by herself, but she was a cold monster too. Maybe he should be scared. "They say talking to oneself is the first sign of madness. Are you sure you're not insane?" Her voice was soft, emotionless, but intelligent. Lobes perked in interest atop her inky poll.