One must ask if they mind the steep, rocky solitude of the North, because it is not for all.  Though she ghosts through this world of white, and stone, appeased by the monolithic guardians ringing her, pleased in the shadow of their reaching peaks, and eager to wander the black catacombs of their caverns, not all enjoy the cold, or the thinness of the air.  Some fear the downward drops, and sheer effacements, more than they find delight while wandering the heart of perfect, alpine meadows, while others still shy away from the discomfort of the cold, seeking warmer, more bountiful realms…
 
For the weak.
 
She traipses, canters, and trots, her legs and endless, forward march of peculiar grace, and savage leaps, the muddy trails leading them to the land which had been the Reaper’s, and was now merely the Valkyrie’s.  A small giggle is procured from the demoness, her eyes narrowing in suspicion of such a title, on such a dulcetly painted beauty.  Though, certainly, she had looked nice against the ebony might of the wielder of Death, Beloved was unsure as to how much of that dark ambrosia the Rosy Dawn might deliver to the realms of the living.  Could she stir the masses into the ferocious head of the maul?  Did she have the fortitude to be the shaft, to reverberate with the force of that brutal crown’s impact, and not splinter away, fragmented, culled, by the very power one wished to wield?
 
Only time will tell.  She certainly had been loud enough to rouse the dead, thinks the devilish one, gaze slowly flowing back to the traveler in her midst, her cherub’s voice singing, sweetly, into the mountain’s springtime breeze. 
 
"Ahead, there, see how the stone shadows itself, a hidden rift?" she gestures as she speaks, her sentence closed by the ominous indication with her horn towards a seemingly unremarkable change in the mountain’s stone face; if it had not been pointed out, it might have gone unnoticed entirely, which Beloved was sure was the point.  It had been part of the allure, of this place.
 
Clandestine, a place for those who walked the night, and ducked the radiance of the sun; surely Weaver had noted the peculiar habits of the mare, how she often winced, as if in pain, as their travels forced them beneath the blinding light of the Fire Keeper.  Here, in the mountains, that Sun was blotted by the stone, its radiance less often punishing, and, like those within the valley just ahead, hidden.  Through the almost invisible portal she passes, and out into the green land ensnaring the lake.
 
The rotting sentinels, rusted, weak, sag meekly where they once stood proud, drawing again her maddened hiss of disapproval, her ears flicking back atop her crown, as she sidesteps away from this treacherous waste of Father War’s gifts.  Still, the realm of the unicorns is there, lit in the afternoon sun, the snow glutted earth already baring the green fronds of summer, where the ground had not been churned into murk by passing hooves.
 
"The important ones will find us soon.  Come, come," bobbing her head erratically, inviting with occasional, cryptic juts of her muzzle towards the lake, as she steps further within, her giggles more swift, in the heightened moment of her successful catch, and being the first to walk her through the threshold of the mountain.  Her steps lead them towards the shore of the unfreezing waters, not far into the land; unafraid for recompense or punishment, the white witch allows her patron further inward for the fact that she has faith in her ability to simply kill her, if she’s a false face, a beguiling whore, bent on bringing mayhem into Beloved’s kingdom.  "they’ll not mind if we quench the thirst of wandering, as we wait."



[ OOC:  Weaver first please! ]