The rain. It was blessed.
Droplets of water bounced and ricocheted off the very spine of gaea herself, breathed fresh, cleansed air into the landscape with the
caress of a lover and the voice of a thousand armies. It marched onward, turning into the tiniest of rivers upon the muddied hills and trickling downwards,
adding it's song to the chorus of the choir. The droplets of water were perfection, mingled with the wind, and through the waterfall of voices,
a voice carried upon the downy feather wings of the breeze.
The shadow stirs from her placement near the borders of a land she has not come to before, mixed with the aroma's of those whom live amidst
the dryad's and are one with her mother beneath the churning surface. It moves, writhes, perhaps, it takes breath and steps across sacred ground.
It sticks to the very shadows from which it came, forth from the fields of the God's, without wings nor familiar scented cloak. The rain washes all things away, in time, even scent.
A splash through a puddle, mud sticking to the lower half of the shadow's feminine frame. Did the shadow do this on accident, you ask? It is quite known that most prefer to keep the apparel of their frames fresh, fashion is not aided by scars, nor the clogged, thick earth that sticks to her as spider's webs.
It does aid the ability to hide, to blend, to mix and become one with the dryad's, the leaves, mother earth.

The tiniest of voluptuous smiles touches the maw that is hidden in the darkness, it promises nothing,
says nothing, though the hints of carnage that could be is shown in the way her frame tenses with the noises of many, unfamiliar
voices.
The shadow slows, her steps are even, her pace is even, her breath billows into the air as the softest of murmurs, the breath of the wind and the rain, formed into the constant shh of the constant tears.
And the shadow comes as close as it dares in the hidden enclosure of the forest, damp frame stills, the dagger that strikes forth
from her brow pressed behind the cover of a low-hanging, thick branch, turned dark and lush with the absorption of liquids. She breathes. One, two, three. One, two, three. The water melds, becomes one with her, until she is no longer the seeker of the Asylum, until she is the rainwater. She is the storm, she is the damp earth and the rough touch of the bark. She neither exists, nor does she not exist. Like the shadows, the water, the breath of the wind, she simply.. is. Pricked harks catch the voices of that which she can make out in front of her, strangers, that which she does not recognize, and the star-blessed lady, whose voice she does recognize as the first song that was breathed into existence in the peaceful, rain-scented air. Has she been seen?

That would be up to them. She conceals herself with the best of her abilities, yet the mortal striving of perfection must limit itself to the chains of solidity, the darkened lady cannot actually become the shadows, she may strive, and yet the magic that would aid her in such a journey is cast away from her, bent, hard to grasp, it doesn't exist. It is not with her, she does not hold the key within her soul on this eve. She has not been blessed, she is cursed, she is damned.
The rainwater, the shadow, the lady of the darkness could return to the fields, could leave these sisters and brothers to the discussions that beat along with her heart, perfectly in tune, perfectly composed, to write the song they have made.

But there is one here, one she can almost taste through the cleansed air, there is tension and was there not a bounty on this blackened, charred equine's head?
The cheery internal voice that whispers in her mind sings a little tune, a canary's yellow of happiness and purity, cloaked in a sweetness that bubbled up as a mental giggle, lilting, rising in her mind, a sick pleased voice chimes the words inside her cranium.
Slice her in two and crush her skull, the smile grows - take her eye and stick it in a jar, watch it rot and wither with glee!
Oh, let the Lord of this land snap the little acidic cirsfathè's spine and use her as a damned rug.

She'd do the skinning for them.