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Of course, the General is more to Weaver’s liking; Beloved is not entirely surprised, however, allowing the attention of her prize to linger on the boy who would be conqueror, she herself drifting her haunting, giggle accompanied focus between either the blue stag, or the two toned female. More finite, the young warrior’s words draw a more rational expression to the mask of Yr’s woman, rather than the befuddlement which often follows Beloved’s inquiries, and remarks. Suitable, these places where the words are not lost on foolish ears, these fellows to bring the deaf and dumb to, she thinks, a pleasant change from her solitary wandering, or years free, in the dark, where it was only herself, and they. Imprecise, the decision as to whether they were whisper, or real, unlike this vision, quite tangible, and very much a part of the now; such are her thoughts when Weaver again speaks, drawn from her inner dwelling to look out, with laughter, her ears drinking in the sweetly bemusing statement which the hybrid offers the General. Not dying, indeed; Beloved also knows this skill. Does Yr’s Weaver know to of death? A soldier, yes, but a knife… Her eyes narrow, lips searched for answers by an eager, bubblegum tongue tip, her ears moving this way, that, as if chasing the thoughts which flitter about her mind. Does it even matter? Laughs the demoness, her pale tail flashing against her flanks, an amused, feminine hum following her tittering giggles into silence. |
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@Erebos
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
