| Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5 |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 9 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Mongrel :: Common Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
wanda |
A golden eye watches his sardonic and withering smile appear on charcoal lips, one ear twisting to him as she listens to the fading footsteps of the young girl; she has little patience for children, except of those worthy of her company, like Veil, the Vile, the E v i l, borne from her womb in the corrupting palace of her old hearth, quickened from Draqari's seed. In silence Lady Death seethes- no, she does not, it is Mongrel's anger which pounds relentlessly in the back of her skull, his impatience with the stallion's poor behaviour; she catches his imaginations and machinations as her eyelids slither shut over her venomous orbs, glimpses of scarlet spittle dripping from Morir's maw and a ravaged landscape of a broken face.
An indecisive ripple curls through her broad shoulders, thoughts caught between punishment and beguile, temptation and the intricate carvings of her acidic teeth digging into his shoulder. It is with lock-jawed effort that she refrains, instead turning her vigilance to watch as what little expression he shows at a child's beleaguering and boring protests melts from his corpse's face.
They descend into the remains of a landscape ruined by villainy and sorcery, monstrosities and beasts, a place of death and decay and corrupt; if not for her own experiences in this wicked world, she may have been different in response to the degradation of the land. Indeed, she may have LUXURIATED in this shadow lying over the land, inhaled the crumbling of tree and leaf and moist soil, listened to the bemoaning of the haunting wind and the tiny shrieks of minuscule animals, an eerie and enchanting music to her sharp ears. As it is, she is wary; her skin flitters constantly over coarse muscle, and she is cautionary of those bled dry but undead, those with eyes that hang out from their sockets, the expanses of ruined flesh that she is so familiar with. That is, on the dead, but not on the horrific zombies, not those who live when they should be enclosed in hells and heavens.
Her unease deepens, even as they turn towards the south, to the Heart of Helovia; nares ripple wide as she drinks in the stench of rot, her ear half-turns to focus upon Morir's voice.
You cannot scare Death, even if you may put her on her guard.
As he casts his eyeless sockets upon her, her lips peel back into an abysmal snarl, at the intimate intensity. Around her foreleg curls her beast, with nefarious illusions flickering at his figurative fingertips; a question hovers at the forefront of his mind, itching to be released.
No.
"I have no problem with regiment-leaders, war generals, corporals, lieutenants, soldiers, spies, citizens; I listen to those who have thought to offer. I am not such a fool to blatantly ignore suggestions from sources other than myself." Her voice is composed, a thing of ethereal decay and rot, eerie and haunting, alluring in a wickedly disarming fashion, yet falling (purposely?) short of sweet and honeyed. "But wouldn't you agree one must make sure that a spider is not weaving a web? That an individual should contribute before leading?"
There is the crunch of hoof on snow as she moves alongside him in momentary silence, her hips swinging idly, her mongrel kitsune sending her fleeting images of a clear trail ahead.
She clears her throat, swallows the acid foam.
"Family. Protection. I have lived on my own for two years now-" and her voice gentles, her eyes unseeing. "And it is not easy to be awake every moment of the day, to always be watching for the danger that lurks in the dark. The Regime will embrace you as blood bonded and friend, if you are willing to take us."
And if you do not, crowned stallion, than you shall find yourself pitted without sight against death and blood and a mouth of poison.
CONFUTATIS
and when you meet me, you at long last acquaintance yourself with death in all its magnificent glory.
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