Dark tones erupt with violent integrity, splattering her calm demeanor with the vicious need to satisfy prerequisites never quite declared. Or so it seems to the whitewashed girl, though her reaper has regained the melancholy composure appropriate for he, the Deathtouch King. At the crest of eternity they reclaim their masks, entering once more into the masquerade- she a sweet maiden, innocent snowdrop awaiting the world, he the dark stranger, dour allure a dangerous mix that soaks through his coat and escapes into the day. They cut a fine figure, as always they have, the father and mother reborn into flesh. She lets her eyes pursue his words; she has already seen the lake and scorned it, but he need not know that his is a reviewed reward. "A lake sounds lovely," she tells him sweet, the tingle of mischief resplendent in her voice. "Perhaps I shall freeze it, and make us a rink on which to skate."

The shifting of stone upsets their camaraderie, a delicate and dirty scent of youth twisting on the wind and into her thoughts. Our angel restrains from throwing back an ear; children do not appeal to her, though the wraith has born two of her own, and the idea of a petulant brat interrupting the reunion of water and death jars against her mind like the howl of a dying thing. Where is its mother, that it is allowed to wander so, free as a wild thing upon the hill and vale, unbeholden to a world where the minds of others are a construct you must learn to control, not intrude at your whim? Subtlety and children do not a marriage make; but the whitewashed queen does not scowl, does not show this on her face.

Instead she watches as the filly draws near, blue eyes bright with the appearance of welcome. Sharp lines warm and relax when the child stops short; a glance is thrown to the demon brother, the laughing warning of do be nice, and the angel returns to the onyx foal, blinking but once at the flash of soulless eyes. Odd, she thinks, yet composure remains, only breaking into words at the fearless approach. "Be careful darling, my brother bites!" The laughter is set with a firm vein of iron; while boldness is admirable, it is not always wise. Behind eyes that simmer with smiling falsehoods she wonders if the girl will approach her Reaper with as much brazen abandon, and finds herself disappointed when the creature does not; still, it speaks of some hope for the filly, that a slight whim of sense still runs in her mind.

She shakes her head, twisting her mane to dislodge some imaginary insect, letting the white of it ripple in the sun, tight eyes closed against the black of the child, the abrasive grey of the mountains, the greenish gleam of a lake which is not her sea. She does it to stretch sore ache, to hide behind the curtain of natural beauty; she does it to give herself a moment to think, to size up this infant and decide what to do next. The girl is bold, this much is true; but brazen and thoughtless as well, as children often are.

Fight fire with fire, the actress decides. Test the filly's resolve, see what she can hold. "You have remarkable eyes," she states as a fact, some gentleness still lingering but the laughter left behind. There is sincerity - the white eyes do startle, though she has seen things far stranger - but mostly the question, and a challenge, and behind that, just blue. She glances at Deimos, the Reaper King, and wonders if he will step into the fray- probably not, if she remembers the young god right, but perhaps he has changed in his rise to the top.