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04-22-2017, 01:02 PM
She panics, when the healing magic first touches her, its warm, wonderful sensation foreign and entirely different from the ebbing pulse of her black blood’s seeping. The spiraling glimmer in her mind’s eye is momentarily replaced with a real one, and when that magical essence returns to Enna’s being, and the witch is left shivering, but whole, Beloved narrows her eyes upon the healer. Watching her tend to the rest, observing how the General follows her with his gaze (having not been lucid enough to catch how gently they had exchanged each other’s callings as the Mender had arrived), the bitch sneers from behind her wary scowl.
The General’s whore? Thinks the mare to herself, crown tilting, laughter tittering, unaware how deeply the blue pelted man might gouge her were he to overhear her mental query; unaware, too, how one might care enough about another to rip holes in anyone for speaking of them in such a way. Regardless, it is for those glances alone that the wicked one does not tail the healing maiden, her lips wetted by a tongue hungry for blood; the witch does not take kindly to healing magic. The mending, its very essence of replacement and creation, makes her vile heart twist and writhe, and though she knows it was, perhaps, necessary, and that her ear now longer hangs and her head no longer swims with bloodlessness, she hates Enna for it.
The hate does not have time to become action, however, the tethers of her feeble loyalty to the title and place that the Basin has allotted her holding her until, with a shudder, and horrid groan, the bear returns from the realm of the dead.
Suddenly, all she can see is that glorious, undying fiend, her vision tunneling in upon it, the shouts and warnings of her comrades lost to the electrical energy that radiates between she and the monster, as she stares. Her gaze quivers, and her laughter rolls forth, nervous, afraid, but beholding splendor, also, her whole being shivering with elated lust as Erebos proclaims it a potential creation of Kaos.
It is only when he throws himself before the bear that the woman looks over, her sneering mouth twisted and cruel; she catches Wessex’s words, and cackles.
"Cowards," she mocks and sings as the many-crowned mare threatens the General onward with her myriad points. Beloved’s hooves dance beneath her with uneven, peculiar rhythm as she steps nearer to the bear, alongside her arguing herd-mates; she will remain, not the idiot boy with love in his eyes. What chance did he have, rightfully having asked the rest the same? None. None with all that fear twisting tight in his feeble, mortal heart. "You go, General, with the rest who have but one death. Let your fear fuel your hooves as you run. But we do not die here, nor anywhere! And we do not flee!"
Whipping her gaze from the General, and glaring at the undead beast, she snarls, the sound ending in a childish giggle.
"Undying, Beloved does not fear you!" she proclaims, spittle flying from her lips, "we are brethren, bound by death, tethered by word, ruled by that which does Ever-Change! Beloved does not fear you!"
[ OCC: uhhhh RIP stupid. Sorry Erebos D: just fire her ]
The General’s whore? Thinks the mare to herself, crown tilting, laughter tittering, unaware how deeply the blue pelted man might gouge her were he to overhear her mental query; unaware, too, how one might care enough about another to rip holes in anyone for speaking of them in such a way. Regardless, it is for those glances alone that the wicked one does not tail the healing maiden, her lips wetted by a tongue hungry for blood; the witch does not take kindly to healing magic. The mending, its very essence of replacement and creation, makes her vile heart twist and writhe, and though she knows it was, perhaps, necessary, and that her ear now longer hangs and her head no longer swims with bloodlessness, she hates Enna for it.
The hate does not have time to become action, however, the tethers of her feeble loyalty to the title and place that the Basin has allotted her holding her until, with a shudder, and horrid groan, the bear returns from the realm of the dead.
Suddenly, all she can see is that glorious, undying fiend, her vision tunneling in upon it, the shouts and warnings of her comrades lost to the electrical energy that radiates between she and the monster, as she stares. Her gaze quivers, and her laughter rolls forth, nervous, afraid, but beholding splendor, also, her whole being shivering with elated lust as Erebos proclaims it a potential creation of Kaos.
It is only when he throws himself before the bear that the woman looks over, her sneering mouth twisted and cruel; she catches Wessex’s words, and cackles.
"Cowards," she mocks and sings as the many-crowned mare threatens the General onward with her myriad points. Beloved’s hooves dance beneath her with uneven, peculiar rhythm as she steps nearer to the bear, alongside her arguing herd-mates; she will remain, not the idiot boy with love in his eyes. What chance did he have, rightfully having asked the rest the same? None. None with all that fear twisting tight in his feeble, mortal heart. "You go, General, with the rest who have but one death. Let your fear fuel your hooves as you run. But we do not die here, nor anywhere! And we do not flee!"
Whipping her gaze from the General, and glaring at the undead beast, she snarls, the sound ending in a childish giggle.
"Undying, Beloved does not fear you!" she proclaims, spittle flying from her lips, "we are brethren, bound by death, tethered by word, ruled by that which does Ever-Change! Beloved does not fear you!"
[ OCC: uhhhh RIP stupid. Sorry Erebos D: just fire her ]
you've lost your demon.
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
