| 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 |
Macabre grins and sly smiles; a mask of cruelty and a veil of disdain; the harlot approaches, the quean with amber eyes and a mouth full of poison. Soil and sod does not wither at her touch, but flesh will; flesh will crumble, slough and fester, strip, dismantle, and succumb to her black magic. She is Death, garbed and robed in a cloak of sin, rot, glowing in the dim of her amber eyes, lust and ambition- where she stalks, they cower in den and nest, fearful of her wroth, and rightly so. Confutatis approaches, summoned as a commoner would be (but she is no commoner, she is the quean, the whore, the wanton), at ease among the shadows and beneath the starlight white and faceless. At her hooves cavort her fiendish companion, eyes glowing coals in the night.
They approach, sinister, loathsome, and feral.
Ahead, they see a silhouette, one that has become known to them; the Rotunda, with a ceiling of colored glass. In the moonlight, all gemstone shades gleam translucent, washed pale no matter emerald or violet, crimson or scarlet; it glitters and refracts on a coat of obsidian, a reaper, war-monger, a dragon king; hooves clatter as she ascends to her rightful perch beside the not-so-gallant knight, the stalwart shield with iron eyes. The wolf's head inclines in greeting to the dragon green, and in turn to the warlord she rides upon. "It is time then?" she asks, her voice cracked and hushed, broken secrets leaking out around the edges; and a faint smile blooms on her ragged mouth. I have new magic to show you; new sorcery, nefarious and vile, deathly and breath-taking. Yet the quean refrains.
Ears tip to him, and she hesitates again before speaking to him, in the hush before the Regime will gather; "I intend to raise Morir to our Duke. He is well-qualified for the job... he has already lured in a mare, more of which can be said for the rest of our warriors."
She does not ask for permission. She tells him, and gives a singular prayer to the gods that he will accept her opinion without discord and dissent.
CONFUTATIS
and when you meet me, you at long last acquaintance yourself with death in all its magnificent glory.
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