The dying light of the sun still casts unbearable warmth from the skies, and yet under the
canopy of the gnarled trees, the marsh is luke-warm. it is a thing to be thankful for, the wrath
of the fiery celestial body in the sky having brought with it the full rage of summer. if it were not for the
thick canopy, the watery landscape would be bathing in disgusting waves of warmth.
And with the dying sun, comes the monsters of the night, the ghouls, the hunters.
The huntress.

The seeker moves with grace and ease, despite the aches that grasp her with it's bony embrace.
She looks forward to being healed, forward to ridding herself of the burns and bruises,
forward to ridding herself of her constant reminder that she lost. she has not seen the white general
since she has been injured by the werewolf, has not seen his icy orbs and misty ship.
It is something else to be thankful for, something else to softly murmur humbly to the divines,
for she is not sure what she would do if she met the general so soon after her confused,
muddled thoughts on him in the heat of the battle. And so it is with careful step and wary orbs that she
moves through the dryads, fearful of bumping into the soldier, fearful of having to face
his disappointment in her afterwards.
It is then that the dark witch hear's the words of the insane, bumbling, crazed,
and her soul flutters with recognition that this is not the voice of the soldier, but the voice
of one she has not yet had the pleasure of meeting. He, for the voice is that of a brute,
spills into the air, disturbs her harks with noise. She composes herself with elegance before moving forwards,
listening to his voice in the growing dark of the marsh. He speaks of heroes and villains, sin and grace, betrayal and vengeful wraith.

Her visuals tell her of one with a horn, red weaponry that adorns the mottled forehead. They tell her of one who is draped with a red
robe, one with light orbs that remind her of the morning skies of a crisp winter. It is with joy that she recognizes her brethren, joy that she has run into
one who she can speak insane lyrics with and be greeted alike. And yet she does not yet know this one's damnation, and so she slows, a respectful distance of her fellow family member.
"My brother, do not the villains think of themselves as heroes? Is it just to assume that we, then, are all heroes? Or perhaps we are all villains, with the vain desire to think of ourselves as the graced? Is it right to assume we are the cleansed, when we have committed crime? And is it then right to assume that we are all the toy's in the game that sin has created?" Lyrics spread as honey, philosophical discussion in the midst of the marsh. With her family.
What a strange peace it brings.


CREDITS

tagged: @[Vulture]