His confident departure is saluted by the defiant cry of a stubborn little girl. A wry grin, lopsided and grim in all its dry amusement stretch the corner of the ashen maw, a silent salute to the bravery - she would go far, this daughter of wind and rain, if she only lived to grow into her full strength. He lets her go without protest - what use is there in a guide who can't do their job properly? - and focuses instead of the crone as she steps up to walk by his side. The swell of temper is apparent in the foul voice as she retorts, something that only fuel the amusement of the blackbird even more. It is with some effort that he swallows the smile, adopting a face somber and grim, stern and unyielding - a black mask of emotion concealing true emotion, for that, he has learned, is the best way to learn the true nature of others.

The strider listen in silence as she promote her cause, speaking names and divulging plans for a future that must be grand indeed, considering the religiousness with which she speaks of it. He roam slowly meanwhile, taking the opportunity to sense the surroundings; beyond the babble of her tedious tune is plenty to hear, if one only allowed themselves time to listen. Needles falling from great heights to land beneath tree-giants, snow creaking beneath their hooves solid and cloven as each step bring them further along, (in the wrong direction, but no matter) and somewhere to his left a creek was still alive, its icy crisp waters flowing rapidly beneath layers of moss and wilted fern, under solid ice and layers of snow. Yet, the further they walked into this unknown land, this unexplored territory beneath a sky he had never sliced with the wicked edge of his unbreakable crown, the more those sounds depicting life and health began to fade. Soon the sound and scent of beasts and avians died out, replaced by slithering sounds and unsettling murmurs of creatures unknown like the stench of death, decay and disease replaced the fresh, spicy tinge of forest and greens, dead moss and snow. The wind itself as it swept through the forest lamented with shrill voice, muttering and screaming in twitching lobes and tugging at charred tresses; carved nostrils quivered and expanded as air rushed through those sensitive nares, exploring and researching this change in the landscape.

Maybe they were right. Signs picked up by his own enhanced senses spoke in favor of their theory of madness and sorcery, of efficacious corpses and carrion performing wicked parades in the night. The nightly wanderer sighed and brought his massive bulk to a halt once more, a shadow darker than death itself ceasing movement - becoming nigh invisible, had it not been for the fine netting of luminescent silver veins that coursed through the obsidian hide.

"You will lead, and I will follow, is what you are saying" he said quietly. "You offer power and domination, superiority and protection... Yet you will have me bow before you and follow your tail toward whatever end." Blinded sockets turn to impart their unseeing stare upon the tempting succubus, unsettling in their intensity. Silken forelock does little to veil the sickening lack of fluid-filled orbs where it fall softly over the regal arch of the nasal ridge, disclosing instead the un-opening lids in all their fused repulsiveness.

"Why?" he asks, question so soft, so gentle and tender that it becomes all the more deadly, all the more haunting and serious for it's lack of roughness. "Why should I bow to you, when I can live free and easy on my own? What can you give me, that I cannot acquire on my own?"

Answer, uncrowned queen of the lost and damned, and see if your words will finally persuade this prince of nothingness. Maybe he will allow you to lead then, to pave the his way through his eternal night and become the sole mortal in this life who may command his actions. For the beast is loyal once tamed, yet not a dog to summon and dismiss. Always his own ruler, his own salvation and his own guiding light in a world that constantly rejected him, this lonely stag is perfectly capable of looking after his own skin - contrary, no doubt, to the belief of the imp that tried to snare his soul.