Nocturne Summit this little piggy went to the liquor store

praimfaya knows she should be afraid as her senses begin dull and a hazy fog settles over her grasp of reality. she is present and she is aware in some capacity but lacks control of what she does or what she says; as if someone else has snatched her body and was at the helm. a soft, lilting giggle passes from the commander's lips as she studies the ebony stranger and his pondering to her question. maybe you are a ripa, praimfaya wonders aloud, next; a coy curl of her lips as she cants her head ever-so-slightly to the side. a reaper. he certainly looked like what she might imagine a reaper to look like.

the writhing shadows, the burn of his golden gaze ...yes, if she had to put a face to a reaper it would be his. more curious enough she doesn't mean that in a bad way. she does not fear reapers. how can she? she is the commander of death.

no, the commander purls with another giggle. i am no ghost. she assures him. i am wanheda. she corrects. the commander of death. spoken grimly, proudly perhaps; lacing with sincerity that lay as heavy as the crown.