She’ll just fly in, asks, but really tells, Yr’s Weaver, and the pale wolf smiles, her cackles swift and free. The wicked one knows what dwells in the stone halls, beneath the veneer of roses and gleaming frost, having been one to walk here before the new rules had been passed by whoever had permitted them. She still saw them, however, the old ghosts, and though she wonders if they will evaporate without the golden bitch and the Reaper, she also wonders what sort of fool would draw attention to things undesired by some in this vale.

It was not Beloved’s way to follow politics, or really care for the outcome of the mortal realms, whether they burned, or thrived, around her. She does not discern between one lineage or another, cares not for what one carries on their back, or between their legs; they were all filled with blood, and wet, pulsing things, and they all swam a river with a predesigned end. What became of the others did not matter, no more than what became of ash, or dust. No… what Beloved cared for was power, and power came in all sorts of packages, from magic, to might, to secrets.

"You could," replies the wicked one, her brows rising, her lips twitching into a smirk that says a lot more than those two words do.

They walk, however, together, the wretched wastes of bronze and wire drawing attention, as they always do, though not the sort they had once. Pausing, her frown deep, and ugly, she shakes her head, the grimace seemingly tossed away for her wild smirk, and the demoness offers a roll her shoulder, and a giggle.

"Orphans, waste," she seems to curse, before her cherub’s voice again sweetly sings, her silver rimmed eye shivering with the wonder as to what,, indeed, "once a man with marks the same as the metal tended them. His children? Beloved does not know. He abandoned them, so it seems."

He had not been here, regardless, she thinks she says out loud, moving again into the vale, the smooth surface of the lake shining, a beacon to which she is steadily lured. Glancing back at Weaver, her dark eye roves, her jaw clenching, and unclenching.

"Lady Hotaru," claims the maiden from her convoluted mind, knowing that the Shouting Dawn will do little in favor of Weaver should the rose toned woman find them here; of the others, Beloved does not know, but for her General, ironically the only soul she remembers from among those who gathered here, to sleep the night away, while the wolves wandered. "And the General, Erebos. The others are merely faces. You would not know their names."

The Braided Pony, who tended the thieves, and the aging, bay singer of sad songs, with her gentle heart. The one who watched the Mirror was young, and pretty; there was also the Blue Mare, who seemed to have walked from the sea, rather than fallen from a womb, and the Little Weaver, who was not this Weaver. They were names, perhaps, but only to Beloved, and Yr’s Weaver would find no use in them.

The unfreezing waters greet them, the pale one’s maw soon wet and her throat no longer parched by wandering. Lifting her crown, water drips back to its parent source, and her lips curve into a smile of pleasure, her few giggles warm, and chaotic.

"Good," she states, committing herself to the role of tour guide with a twisted frown, as there seems to be no others arriving, as of yet, "to the North, we will go, if none come soon, to the caverns, and the ever-warm waters."