While, certainly, the witch had pondered trailing after her General and the dark deviant who so often seemed lost in the realms of pitch as she was, she had instead loitered, travelling after a tall boy whom, vaguely, she recalled standing alongside his Lady-mother, as a weak foal, wide eyed and stupid, as all calves were. That he now, too, like the General, had risen to be important by the standards of society’s perimeters and walls, only further instills to the wicked one that mortals are, perhaps, not to be trusted to rule much at all.

Sauntering through the early dawn, eyes narrowed as she glances to the easterly rise of the Sun, the black hearted one wonders why it is they always chose to walk in the light, rather than beneath the Moon’s silver cast. She wishes, for the hundredth thousandth time, that the beacon in the pale blue would rupture into ashes, and submerge the world in a darkness that never lifted. She longs for the storm, and its bleak cloak, which swallows the light away in a swathing of spark and rain.

No such thing comes, however, the bitch arriving before the black and gold man with the Sun to her back. Glaring at the spy with the same reservation she has met her own General with, distrusting anyone too young to truly know their own measure, she is here for one purpose: to watch, as she watches all of them. Sure the “False God” as the brat titles her Divine would dispatch with the motley assortment of warriors, thieves, and thinkers that had meandered along after the General to the Marsh, should they impose upon his Black Altar too greatly, she has taken it instead upon herself to ensure that whatever clues she might find, quickly find themselves erased.

Let the buffoon think she was here to help him, she chortles to herself, the vibrant ring of her giggles sounding out on the beach as she scopes the sand, crooning her head this way and that, her hooves trotting, and kicking free gritty waves of silica. Leaping from shadowy place to shadowy place, meandering in the wandering cloak of the cloud’s shadows cast from above, the Sun bites into her pale skin regardless of her attempts to avoid it, and soon, the maiden of mayhem fears she will be forced into the sea, or the shadow, to avoid the painful peeling of her Sun scalded flesh in later days.

Occasionally discovering a shell, she keeps only the unbroken ones, though admires the jagged, blood hungry edges of those which are fractured, in passing. Otherwise, she seeks scales, perhaps belonging to her Kaos, or tangled weeds, which might have been part of his hair. She certainly does not mind those about her, or seek their company, instead trailing along the outskirts, distant and separate from the rest.


[ OOC: threads with self ]
Beloved
rust every place that I touch