beloved

Red forests, they are oppressive and dark beneath the ruddy orange light of the Moon; she is stained like infection, streaked with a sickly and tepid orange diluted by the pure ivory of her flesh as she slowly traipses beneath the midnight boughs. Her eyes are dark and heavy, her cognizance slipping in the arduous splendor of the deep night and the full face of its queen, drunk on the rising aura that promised wickedness growing in its depths.

She can smell the rot of the logs as they crush with squelching ease beneath her diminutive frame, she can scent the death of the leaves as they lie broken and forgotten beneath the bodies of their fellows that trickle with autumnal music to the floor around her, and the pulse of her empty heart throbs in time with the hymnals of her thoughts and dancing blades.

It is warmer to the south, but not as beautiful or arcane as the ice realm or the mountain and its hidden haven, the thousands of caves and their millions of branches reaching into the dark hearts of the stone peaks. She could die in them, lost for years, happy as a dog with a bag of bones, gnawing away on the richness of that colorless, oblique world as if it was filled with a marrow that could sustain her – but she would die, as all living things who find themselves in dark deep and endless. What a pitiful end for such a goddess as she, how beautiful and weak; it is the story of the others, not of her, the Beloved one.

How sweet is her existence, a petulant beast that writhes across the surface of the earth and gleams as delightfully as cursed, wicked gold. How graceful is she, how magnificent! She cleaves to the shadow like the river to its bed, and she glimmers and leaps as the silvery beads that tear free of their keeper.

Rivers, the water is black as she comes upon it, glistening with starlight, and she stares with a nervous twitch of laughter rising from her mouth at how the water seems to watch her back with its thousand eyes. A crescendo of the heart song, her soul throbbing with its heavy pulse as the wicked one struggles to grasp hold of the logic that flutters and hovers like flies.

It cannot see her. It is not alive, no matter that it moves or sings in the darkness.

[ OOC: Northwestern edges of the Dark Forest. :3 ]
@[Ophelia], @[Raeden]

die like God, on the cover of time