The Sun begins to fall, each shadow cast by the awkward tilt of the weary Light long, many times its true height, and the grass is illuminated so as to wear an underbelly of burgundy and black, capped with emerald. Though no stars have yet begun to twinkle in the heavens, the faintest line of dark has emerged on the horizon opposite the Sun’s setting, a premonition of the Moon which will rise soon enough.
Blinking that horrid, fading light from her gaze as she removes herself from the thicket of trees (tall, with heavy branches) in which she had waited out the day, eager, as always, for the arrival of night, and the comfort of its cool darkness, she moves to return to her Lord’s land; not the peaks, northern and frosted, even beneath Tallsun’s seasonal command, but instead, the mire, dark and festering, to the south and west. Trotting as she goes, her path erratic yet somehow trailing the border of the Rotunda, the sparse grassland of this region passes her by with ease. The river, to her back, has left her legs and tail damp, the strands of her milky tassel bound together by the molecules of moisture, converting the moderate length of white from individual, spider’s strings into pale, sickly ropes, and, occasionally, she swings this wet thing against her sides and at the insects hovering about her pale flesh with a loud, and surely painful, smack!
She does not think of the river, though, or how that tail stings as it strikes her. She thinks of Kaos, of chaos, of death and of shadow, and her laughter coils about her like the hissing crowns of cobras, swaying to some silent, wanton melody within her. Always looking (always) for the next victim prize to drag bloodied and bent back to the Altar of Black, her dual-chromatic eyes shift slowly and with purpose across the horizon; she had decided, all that while ago, watching the God’s bone-beast rise to life, that such a being must appreciate the smooth, white centers of all mortal beings. He must also, then, admire the sturdy pelts that adorned them, and the supple, moist flesh that was hidden between.
What then, did her God think of the innards? The flesh ropes and satchels that were held within the soft gourd of the belly, a spectacle which was putrid, to most, but not she. Beloved had often admired that wealth of plum and violet, crimson and cream, as if the sliced torsos of those lifeless fools she’d inspected were bouquets of carefully arranged blooms. What colors were to be beheld inside all beings! She thinks to herself, with a titter; how delightful an array to present her divine Divine with!
So, when such a prize appears before her, small and precious as an early apple dropped from a heat weary tree, the wicked one does not hesitate, or pause. She simply charges, her dainty limbs gathering beneath her in a gallop. Her, for once, towering figure of a mere fourteen and three casts the tallest shadow of the two fighters through the golden illumination of the early evening. In fact, the bird which she assaults is laughably diminutive, but she cares not for her advantage in that regard, seeing only the living thing before her, and as eager to take that life as she is any other.
Her svelte figure likely offers less impactful blows than his condensed one, but she is sure that she is the finer dancer, with better legs for such hoof-work than the stunted things this creature uses. Knowing his kind, and their penchant for taking to the heavens, the white witch stills her laughter, restrains it with wild eyed struggle, so that only her hooves thrumming against the grass below might alert the Halfling to her presence. He can’t fly away if she’s already upon him!
Closing that final space between the painted pony and herself with a forward bound that lifts all her hooves from the earth and a heinous cackle, she draws her fore-legs together into a point, and drives towards the diminutive stallion in a hope to bludgeon him, or knock him down; when she attains footing again, a malicious grin accompanies the vicious sweep of her ivory sword through the air. Aiming to slice where ever she may (he has not much flesh to offer), but keen on taking at least one wing joint or leg out of commission, her ultimate drive in such a savage assault is to simply bid the tiny man’s blood to flow free. Striking out at him again, and again, her three, side to side swipes are eager to land, and draw a squeal of fear and pain from the lips of the hobbit.
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[ Setting: Sunset along the borders of the Rotunda, and the west bank of the river; the north and east are bordered by trees, but the rest is otherwise open grassland until it reaches the rocky peninsula of the Veins. The footing is decent, though there are sizable stones and other debris about. Beloved attacks Pip from the west!
Thank you for the spar Neverr <3 Also TOLKIEN THEMED TITLE YUSSSS ]
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