The bitch circles her, and the little one does not like it. Her body touches her own, small hoof striking out with agitation at the bodice so near to her own, not caring if this is a meeting that is supposed to be friendly, one that brings residence to the seekers. That it follows a scream that sounds oh so much like fear leaves only anger in the small dancer’s heart, no worry finding purchase in the throbbing pulse of her blackened breast, no anxiety lacing her eyes as they follow the path of the idiot who dares treat her like prey.

She’ll see, won’t she? Beloved will see to it once they are home.

She has never bloodied snow. How beautiful it must be, like Loveless, lace and elegance tattered with violence burning crimson. Would the snow be sad, too?

Even if the heartless one does not give her the payment she works so hard for, the Reaper will, or the Golden Bitch who rules alongside him. If not her, then the others, all so brutish and hardened by the ice, even those whose eyes bled happiness and whose hearts beat rashly with love for one another.

The crazy one would not be allowed to be so stupid then, would she?

Perhaps all the mad should find covenant within sanity, hide behind their whole brethren, follow their rigid and time worn paths as best as a crooked compass could. Beloved, at least, could listen; Beloved, at least, could learn.

This one?

This one is all cotton, she can see it now protruding from her orifices, she can smell the infection that numbs her brain, and suddenly her muscles relinquish their brittle hold, they release the anger that broils and gathers at the impudence of the one who challenges a damsel such as she, who dares believe herself greater than a God with her rebuttal that is, once again, framed on misconceptions and the wrong perception of what had been said.

This woman is fucking insane, and not in a good way – in the way that deserves gas chambers, fourteen teams of warriors pulling away each of her limbs as she screams, a silent prison where no one will ever touch or see her again. Insane in the way that makes one stupid, useless, undesirable in more ways than Beloved could ever bare to be.

She’d have already died to spare the world herself.

Beloved does not talk of herself, the stupid bitch, but she tires of trying to spare one who can hear no more than the ticking of their own idiot minds and tidbits that suit the rampant child that holds them from rising into true greatness, the mightiest of shadows that writhes and breaks havoc upon the masses in the sheer glory of madness, of sociopathic disconcertion and a heavenly portrayal of the aftermath meant only for eyes who can see only beauty, only what there is.

And what there is…

Is death.

Let her be blind, let her suffer as the rest who cringe and crawl away from such black velvets as the final slumber – Beloved will rise, she will soar, she will break all that walks before her into a thousand pieces by her own violence or by the raging of fate itself. They all serve her. They are all her pawns.

All but the Darkness, the wickedness that rains death and chases life from its holdings; to her, she bends her soul, her crown… to her master, beloved and jeweled in fiery rubies of glory and promise, glinting and morose in their shadowy holds.

"Listen, learn fast," she says when the woman concedes to follow her, legs taking her at a swift walk to the north, a long trek – but the night was long, it was young yet, they had time, "it is the first lesson of many."

A shaking breath is inhaled, the cold air brilliant and vibrant on her tongue, the fireflies scattering like discarded spirits in the autumnal winds as they pass.

"Not a soul gives a damn for any of us."


[ OOC: Next post in the Basin! <3 ]
@[Naira]


Beloved
rust every place that I touch