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03-29-2017, 11:21 AM
beloved
Beloved delights in the idea of the wolves, and also the notion of seeing the large, mechanic unicorns cross the vale, alive, as they were rumored to have been when she first came to this land of dancing light, and mountain’s shadow. The sweet who is worried about being eaten must feel that way a lot, thinks the witch, her eyes lingering perhaps a bit too long on dulcet Larue. They stay too, however, on the wolf-one, who, suddenly, the wicked one recalls, her black pelt and digging paws dimly lit in a hushed wood. Bones, they had gathered, piling them, returning them to the God Who Was Worthy; that damp, onyx muzzle, displayed even on her natural, unicorn form, had rooted them from the earth, found them among the smell of rotted leaf and worm’s excrement, which made all things elude the witch’s nose. Her cackle of mockery which is derived from the existence of continued fear of threat of the wolves turning upon them, with even warriors balking. What mental weakness! "Wolves do not maul the strong," she mutters to Weaver, alongside her, giggling, watching the rest of the meeting in silence. When she leaves, she does so without a word, only the sound of her laughter receding, as she makes her way to the wood, to test her mettle against wolves. Or, at least look at them, anyway. die like God, on the cover of time |
@Weaver
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
