For warriors' eyes, the Reaper's are uncommonly beautiful - shards of sapphire on black velvet; broken glass reflecting a cruel dusk. They pierce the darkness, vivid and bright against the darkness. He draws close to her, and she begins to make the outline of his face - the inward sweep of his nostrils, the curve of a masculine jaw, the noble arch of his nose. Death, so ugly and base, does not mar this general's face like it is wont to do; he is youth and power, not withering flowers nor brittle bones. He pauses so near she can almost hear his heart, if such a creature like him could have one. Some part of Huyana tells her that this is not right - she is an idealist, a pacifist; nothing good can come from one who wields death as easily as a knife, but some twisted, masochistic part of her bades her to stay. Stupid, silly girl, she thinks, absently watching his breath sweep over her face from beneath dark lashes, you are incapable of changing the world.

Why are you here? he asks, and her eyes fall onto his, wide and inquiring. The tip of her tail twitches once, twice, the black hairs falling across her hocks and narrowly avoiding the putrid mud at her heels. Her head tilts lightly, forelock tangling around the base of her horn. "Restless feet take no heed of their surroundings," she says vaguely, studying the forms in the water which surround them with a mixture of morbid fascination and disquiet. Round pale forms protrude from the mire, bloated and bald, floating unnaturally on the corrupt surface. It reminds her of Isilme's darkness, Anarore's shades - she shudders. Death has always nipped at her heels, taunting her, mocking her, but she wants to live, to breathe, to feel the rain for another day. "Why are they here?" she wonders aloud, knowing it is a useless question. Were there wars similar to that of her home? Do civilians just lay down in this marsh to die? Or was there something more sinister? Huyana, usually so hungry for answers, finds herself unwanting to know. I need to go home. She looks up at the Reaper, the characteristic calm in her eyes disturbed, ripples on a still lake. Does he mind this? She doubts it - death is his trade, his birthright. These dead must be nothing but bodies to him, the fallen, the slain, an apathetic army. Something, a bird perhaps, calls out from the darkness of a distant wood; she shudders, but there is no longer fear. No matter how sinister Deimos may seem, she knows he would not desert her in the face of danger.