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02-23-2017, 10:32 AM
Following at the tail of the gathering, her head low and mood abysmal, the caged witch watches from her bars with malevolent glances, out from the black maelstrom within; still perturbed by the evolution of the leadership to which she was bound, following her General for the comfort of familiarity, and his lack of cheerful bounce, Beloved supposes she is also glad for the company of Yr’s Weaver, as much as such a woman as she could be glad for anything.
When the painted hybrid asks of Kaos, the white witch lifts her head slightly, tilting her eye towards the death-marked mare with a hungry curiosity. Does this one, too, know of the greatness of that heathen God? Beloved wonders, but discards, deciding that the stranger knows nothing, as strangers often do; barking laughter, her tail swishes behind her absently, her eyes glistening desirously.
"They killed him," she purrs, believing Weaver knows my this would make her voice break with such lust, such awe; she had not been here for his rising, but she had heard, how each syllable was a condemnation for the murder of His parts, "but again, he rose, from many into one, to crush those who denied his reach."
Her obvious allegiance to the horrible being in the Marsh should perhaps be kept better secret… but Beloved loves what she will, and feels no shame in its expression, cheerfully giggling as she reminisces on the sight of bodies cast aside by the bone beast with ease.
When they at last arrive, it is with vast annoyance that the serpent lends her ears from her inner dwellings on the Black God to catch the Boy General’s words, her ears and eyes rolling away when she realizes the blandness of the statements procured. What she sees are the mountains, the stones, the groves and clusters of trees which birth shadows and wicked things, and the yawning mouths of caverns which lead the eager adventurer into the bowels of darkness. She stares long, longingly, at those black, inviting pits into the faces of the stone, and wonders how many years she might walk them this time.
Would the child warrior seek to stop her?
"Caves, dark places, a labyrinth of black," she answers, her widened eyes watering with the want to lose herself within that frightful maze. Those wicked eyes roll back to him, narrowing, in appraisal. She thinks he might. Giggling at that brazen boldness, her lips slope into a wild, haunting smile, her head beginning to sway side to side, as she shuffles her weight from hoof to hoof.
When the painted hybrid asks of Kaos, the white witch lifts her head slightly, tilting her eye towards the death-marked mare with a hungry curiosity. Does this one, too, know of the greatness of that heathen God? Beloved wonders, but discards, deciding that the stranger knows nothing, as strangers often do; barking laughter, her tail swishes behind her absently, her eyes glistening desirously.
"They killed him," she purrs, believing Weaver knows my this would make her voice break with such lust, such awe; she had not been here for his rising, but she had heard, how each syllable was a condemnation for the murder of His parts, "but again, he rose, from many into one, to crush those who denied his reach."
Her obvious allegiance to the horrible being in the Marsh should perhaps be kept better secret… but Beloved loves what she will, and feels no shame in its expression, cheerfully giggling as she reminisces on the sight of bodies cast aside by the bone beast with ease.
When they at last arrive, it is with vast annoyance that the serpent lends her ears from her inner dwellings on the Black God to catch the Boy General’s words, her ears and eyes rolling away when she realizes the blandness of the statements procured. What she sees are the mountains, the stones, the groves and clusters of trees which birth shadows and wicked things, and the yawning mouths of caverns which lead the eager adventurer into the bowels of darkness. She stares long, longingly, at those black, inviting pits into the faces of the stone, and wonders how many years she might walk them this time.
Would the child warrior seek to stop her?
"Caves, dark places, a labyrinth of black," she answers, her widened eyes watering with the want to lose herself within that frightful maze. Those wicked eyes roll back to him, narrowing, in appraisal. She thinks he might. Giggling at that brazen boldness, her lips slope into a wild, haunting smile, her head beginning to sway side to side, as she shuffles her weight from hoof to hoof.
you've lost your demon.
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
