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10-02-2014, 10:14 PM
The dark shape is there, she decides as it moves towards them. She’d wondered still even as it stirred and took notice of their arrival, but now that its… his bronze eyes flashed and found them, she was certain he was not illusionary. Besides, none of her imaginings had ever been so whole and unsoiled, even if the man is physically filthy – he seems sound enough. The odd one she’s captured today sings and prances, laughs and makes nonsense streak the air. Normally this is Beloved’s task, and it sours her further to be only one of two who glimmer and shine like tarnished gold at the bottom of a swift creek. She is spared, though; the figure who came from beneath the shadowy belly of the second bronze contraption turns his attentions to her, not the new blood, not the fool who thinks she’s a God or something equally as bold and powerful. Not that Beloved believes herself to be anything less, truly; she just knows that even immortals can burn, rot, fester among the bones of their mortal pets, and she’s not so stupid as to assume that she is wiser or stronger than the next holy beast which crosses her path. The woman with the white face dances and sings her way towards a doom which Beloved has watched hundreds of times, thousands, and she will be the one who stands laughing and framed in silver light while the idiot dies as all idiots do. Only a matter of waiting, and waiting was best served when one earned tokens of appreciation for fetching the fish from the forest of fools… but it is not her Lord who has come to collect her, with his imposing stature and dark soul, or the gleaming Lady who is vain and callous and does not appreciate the dangers in the world around her as she should. Laughing weed? What in seven hells is that? A confused sputtering laughter, nervous and twittering, breaks her lips at her lack of understanding. She has never been the sort to care for plants. They don’t bleed. "She thinks she’s a God," she replies instead, as if that is any less confusing or delusional than the pale faced one's laughter, as if it provides more aid than the rambling sing songs of the stranger had, "fell on her head straight from the womb." |
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Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
