What aren’t you telling me?

Beloved’s lips split into a jester’s smile, too toothy, too wide, her giggles high and swift. Looking about quickly, and finding no others who ghost, in waiting, to capture her secrets, without payment, the woman offers the smallest of tidbits, a taste.

"Once, you’d have found no home here," explains the woman, her crown tilting, her tongue tasting the cold air, brushing the pink tint of her lips, her bubbles of laughter small, more bleats, than peals, "yet runs the river still, and you are here, now."

The water reveals the dark reflection of the General as he approaches, the demoness turns to greet him with a titled grin, and the glimmering eyes of a cat, offering its prize to the one who feeds it. Aside from her incessant giggling, she is otherwise silent, her eyes narrowing in silent threat upon Weaver, a preemptive glare, should she decide to lie, and say that Beloved had been anything less than a perfect madwoman.

Grinning madly when the exchange goes in her favor (as it rightly well should have!), she placidly purrs and giggles, her eyes shooting suddenly from Yr’s Weaver, to her General.

"We haven’t a clue what she is good for," bluntly remarks the wicked one, having only now realized that she’d forgotten to ask the most pivotal question, other than “who are you?,” of course; with another sudden pivot, her eyes fall on the dark hybrid, her curiously quivering lips bouncing around her exuberant questions, "what is it, what you are?"

Beloved was a blade, sentient and vile, which had allowed a boy General to wield her, for now. Though her edges had dulled in disuse, she certainly could be tempered and honed again, for the proper reason, and given the means; she would rise again. She would drive through the world, and laugh at the severance of all in her wake, whether thrown from here, upon the peak of this mountain, or from the very bowels of the blackest, most abysmal realms of the underdark, below, and she had known so all her life. She had been born wicked, and baseless, a kin-slayer within the first year of her life, because she had always known her purpose: to be the darkness, snuffing out light, the dark blanket of night eased over the bright glimmer of day. She expected others to know, too, what their shape and service was, how and where they were meant to be, even if she did not expect them to have paid the same rights as she.