Cloven hooves sink into dead soil.

She is lost.

Hopelessly lost.

Blues eyes attempt to make sense of her surroundings; is that the glint of dim light off an eye? The spiral of a horn? The hollow of a throat, cut so many moons ago? For the first time in years, her heart beats a tremulous melody in her chest, accompanying the frantic waltz of her hooves and the whirring of blood in her ears. I am not afraid, she tries to reason with herself, avoiding the bodies as best she can. I have been through two hells and back. Death is second nature. Then why do your bones tremble, your lips clench in an attempt to stifle a whimper? Leonine tail whips like Medusa's crown, staving away any marsh insects from her dark hide. Only a sliver of moonlight manages to penetrate the murk, enough to make the silhouettes of the fallen, to make deep the crevices of their sunken faces.

Blindly the rainchild gropes over the single strip of solid ground, but occasionally a foot strays into the mire, interrupting the slumber of some wretched beast. No rain comes to wash this rot away, to purify this tainted ground; it is far too cold for that, and even if she wills it only the smallest of snowflakes answer her call. A terrible ache grips her frightened heart, a hopeless wish for something familiar - the Moonlit Tides, silverhearted Bow, the elegant curve of her father's jaw, the Tome Guardian, whittling away eternal hours in silence and darkness, heeding the greedy demands of mortals too blind to see their folly. Where is he now? Trapped in the rubble of a dead world, cursed to wander over bones and lost dreams? Or is he somewhere else entirely - delivered from his broken form into something more befitting of such a wise creature? She hopes his knowledge lives on somewhere, but Huyana is not so foolish to think she could access it. "Give me your strength," she murmurs, glancing upward to the hazy face of the moon.

She throws her head down. Nepdon's daughter is no coward and she is definitely not lost.

Breath comes in slowly, stale air choking her. Everything here decays; maybe she will too - maybe she is, ligaments and tendons unraveling from bone like satin ribbon, muscles sloughing off, hair falling to pieces, joints breaking apart. She thinks of being trapped in this mire like the unfortunates before her, and her heart begins to make its frantic course again. It'll leap out of her chest before she realizes, making a dive into the muck. You have a cruel mind, she chides, dark legs quickening their pace nevertheless.

But something stirs in the night; a sinister thing, causing the hair on the back of her neck to raise uncomfortably. "You are just imagining," she whispers, attempting to reason with herself. Huyana bends her head forward nevertheless, brandishing an onyx horn unused for what seemed decades. She smells death - but not the earthy scent of natural decay, but of crumbling rocks and quitting hearts. Accompanying this general feeling of unease is the rattling of hooves against the mire, an endless cacophony - or was it a masterpiece? An orchestra of percussion and death, night and decay.

Reaper.

If one could find relief in demons, it would be the feeble heart of a lost blue child. She tries to shake the sense of disquiet from her bones, raising her eyes to meet him. He is difficult to see in the night, but she does not mistake him - those eyes, haunting and mesmerizing in their own right belong to no other. "Deimos," Huyana calls, trying to hush the fading tremble in her voice. Finally there is at least a little familiarity in this mire. The last time they met was under a panel of stars, but today those astral beings are silent, hidden behind a shroud of death and rot.