She was a great many things, Manon. She was the fierce and raging ocean, the salt dried on tanned skin: the friend turned lover that you just can't bear to tell your mother about. She was a woman born for something unidentifiable, the pure simplicity of living being too mundane, too commonplace and banal for her multi-coloured eyes to appreciate. She could not be defined by one word, nor ten thousand - but she could be felt in the same way that you could feel the current, the breeze, that ominous knowledge that a storm was brewing. A storm was brewing. Manon herself could feel it as she took the first steps over and into the Threshold. The skies were seething, hot, heavy and gloriously wild. But the earth and the air around her were torpid, calm and sweltering - too quiet to be innocent, and too open to be much shelter. She knew many horses traversed the Threshold, if not by her own smarts but by the signs of others - a discarded cloak, fallen jewels, footprints in the moist earth.

Her lungs expanded, diaphanous, deep and well-practiced in the art of breath-holding. Today she did not hold her breath, but took in the surrounding scents with something like ease as her eyes flicked casually around the forest. She started to log every detail, her mind sharp and careful, listening for the slightest breath, the most minuscule temperature change - even the scent of anyone that could be close. Her senses were vibrant and humming, honed to notify her of any changes in her atmosphere. Manon paused in her investigation, a sigh slipping from between her velveteen lips silently. She found a small pleasure in the emptiness of the forest, the ethereal calm that emanated from the ancient trees and even in the heavy silence that promised havoc from the oncoming storm. Manon felt her skin relax a little, though her eyes were still narrow as if assessing what might happen.

There was grace in her step, always, and today was no different - she moved through the forest, a little more relaxed now and brimming with fluidity. Muscles rolled over bone in luxury, her silver braid knocking loosely against her dainty shoulder as she stepped. There were few that matched Manon in gracefulness, and fewer still that could claim her own particular brand of deadly beauty. Certainly, many were beautiful, stunning, divine - but they were not Manon, and did not possess that eerie quality that made her so malignant. Perhaps it was her desire to always be moving forward, the complete and utter certainty in her goals, the way she knew what she wanted and would stop at nothing to gain it. Of course, her skin was satin, her hair spun silver and every line of her body enticing and resplendent - though sharp. A noise sounded and Manon froze, head thrown up and her long lashed eyes wary, watching, waiting:

"Who's there?"