It had been, and would not continue to be, an eon and a day since she had last spoke with the cardinal stallion in the Arch as darkness fall over Helovia; it had been five months since she had let her thoughts roam so freely as to return to the topic which she had once often rested on. Déodat; blood crimson and snow-touched, eyes of violence that rested midway between plum and evening blue, a swarthy steed crowned precariously with a spiraling horn of glass. Today was not markedly different from any other. There was no omen of reuniting and reconvening with a unicorn she had expelled from her twisted thoughts, but here she was, destined to come face-to-face with what she had obliterated.
As of late, her thoughts had been consumed of regiments and troops, army recruitment and hiring, through means either nefarious or more kindly. Again and again she mulled over the possibility of acting as hitman, to simply take what she wanted as she had self-taught; and yet she could not help remembering Morir, the thrice-tined unicorn she had gained as ally due to [originally tasteless] tact.
It would be a last resort.
Mongrel pillages her memories, swimming in half-surfaced imagery, digging out fragmentations and evacuating the needless. It is soothing to have him riffle through the old, occasionally pulling forth one that needs explanation; indeed, almost enjoyable. With his guidance, she was able to access what she had dropped in the endless canyons of her wicked mind, piece together the forgotten. So it is not surprising when she is drawn into the labyrinth of crystal; emerald, ruby, diamond, garnet, sapphire, all vivid colors, glistening and glittering and gleaming, a sanctum of colored jewels, a place reminiscent of an ice palace on the frozen northern steppe. It douses Mongrel in nicked and frayed views of a stallion, scarlet and ice. A stallion who indeed walks these very halls.
There is a shiver of movement ahead, wine and blood; she is drawn, moth to flame, her hooves chinking on the gems that so easily trip and destroy a misplaced leg. Audits twitch forth, and Lady Death gives her head the slightest of bobs, shaking her ashen mane over her neck. Beside her crawls Mongrel, lithe and graceful, slipping over precious stone easily.
Her breath hitches for a moment as she comes across the carmine sight, glittering sanguine surrounded by such colors, and the faintest of smiles bloom across her corrupt lips. Magic billows around her, charming veils of death and rot, and she stands at a distance from him, as not to strip skin from blood vessel; ears twitch and flicker forth, wordless, waiting for his notice.
Déodat.
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CONFUTATIS
