It had only been a matter of time, after all.

They are there, in the snow. Multitudes, shivering, balking, watching, as a rose tinted cloud casts cries alongside the Dark One, her words lackluster lightning strikes through the air out towards those gathered. Among these raised shouts and bodies, Beloved arrives, a white snake slinking, her ears twitch, twitching to catch the promises cast upon the wind.

Thieves, Generals, Weavers… and waste.

Her silver brimmed eye tilts to the sentinels in the distance, their bodies ruinous and decaying, though, from here, all she can see are their distantly huddled, and growingly decrepit, figures slowly succumbing to the earth; invisible is the rust eating at their pelts, and the frayed wires of their hearts.

She sees that rust here, on these living bodies, though.

A boy offers to serve as a warrior, and an old man claims rank a without a name or reason. Her lips tilt, a mocking sort of smile, her laughter quiet, and tittering, as she looks from each to the next. Where were the ravens, the hounds, the fell beasts? There were no wolves here that she could see, but the Dark One, and herself, and though her gluttonous heart groans at the sight of all that succulent power laid out before her, so easily snared in grasping teeth…

Beloved does not allow herself to feast.

The emerald dragon is met with distrust as her hooves move to carry her closer the front, towards the bleak Reaper and his raucous, snowy sunrise of a Lady. Her dainty head pivots swiftly, teeth gnashing at the empty air between herself and the cheerful beast, her ears vanished among the spidery strands of her pale hair. With tail still trashing in hostility at being so nearly molested, the murderous maiden traipses onward no sooner than the dragon attunes to her vile intentions. Her ears are resurrected only to speak to the Dark One, the Reaper, Death Walking, delicate limbs swaying to a cryptic pseudo-halt, ever dancing beneath her..

"Beloved has… skills," she croons to him, her bi-chromatic gaze glassy, and emotionless (but for the twisted, filthy metals and flesh jaggedly webbed within in her soul, that hauntingly gleam and glower, endlessly changing shape, bending, breaking). The haunting song of her laughter bubbles, rises, and is suddenly cut short by the beckoning of her cherub’s lilt, as she continues: "and they are yours, as the Dark One wills. Shadow or blade, for Beloved is both, and more."

And what of the Weaving? her own mind ridicules, a bodiless voice comprised of black, beckoning laughter, and the broil of liquid stone beneath the veneer of the volcano’s sealed mouth.

"Beloved does not create," darkly answers the she-witch, more quietly than she’d told Deimos of herself, her smile tilted, wrong, her giggles nervous as she allows herself to fall back into the crowd.

[ OOC: The High-Lord of the Cryptic basically says she’ll serve as a soldier or a thief, wherever she is most needed! ]