The night beckons, cold, the heavens blank of the silver light of the Moon, the white world, crisp, clean, caught in the shimmering shadow of the night.
 
Appearing from the shadows the glacial caverns, sentinels beneath the diamond-encrusted, ebony sky, is a wraith, her diminutive body dancing on graceful limbs that sway with a slow, cryptic cadence.  Gaunt, gaunt as death would be beneath the heavy, dark draping of his cloaks, her bones are outlined through the perfect, snowy velvet of her pelt.
 
Even things like she cannot thrive on the darkness alone, she has discovered.  Her heart writhes with pain to leave the throne of Beloved alone, but her belly gnaws with equal drive to torment her, pressing her further, further into the snow, her hooves devastating the perfect blanket with wrathful strikes.  No laughter bubbles from her lips, no ghostly song or rhythmic chanting; only snarls, savage, bestial, the clicking gnash of her teeth as she seizes the very air.  The Queen of Nothing is more of a wolf than woman, her displeasure at having been forced to unearth herself boundless, but her path…
 
It is direct.
 
She does not tarry, does not waste the flawless shadow of the world in this evening hour (how she loathes the brightness of snow in the light, and the very light itself), slipping across the landscape with her rage in tow, seeking the tall, behemoth peaks of the northern men, and their hidden vale.
 
The Dark One, the Reaper (such a title, enticing, curious), had let her in once, beneath the watching eyes of the metal titans, allowed her to traipse the shores of the still, haunting lake, to wander the dark recesses of the caverns that riddled the mountains like veins.  He will let her in again, she thinks, a snarl suddenly lilting into a babbling giggle, quickly devoured again by the disgust still pressed tight within her breast.  She had not done him any ill, after all…
 
Yet, when she slips through the secret passage, ghostly, her temper quieted for the sake of diplomacy, a cage she shudders to put herself in, that shudder becoming full fledged horror, as the path yawns into the valley, and she sees the titans.
 
Rotted, the bronze is maimed by rust, patina, filth.  Quavering, nervous, her chattering giggle is a whisper, a dark, wet sound, diminutive ears falling back, bi-chromatic gaze narrowing contemptuously upon such waste.  Who has slain the magnanimous beasts?  Who has such might within the many realms of this Helovia (a kingdom to be burned, to be lost, torn apart)?  Turning her twitching muzzle in the direction of the heart of the realm, she inhales their scent, their smells; the golden bitch is gone, her perfume vanished entirely, but the Dark One remains, and Beloved's wild, peculiar grin twitches about the corners of her pale mouth.
 
Doubt still marks her features, beneath the superficial pleasure.  The result is a hauntingly strange expression, an endless stare of twisted bemusement looking out into the Spark’s hide-away for the arrival of the Dark One, or one of his minions.

 
 [ OOC: Anyone is welcome! ]
Beloved
rust every place that I touch