Deepwood Weald fṇðṇ

13th October. @Vanity!

Lune, abloom; a summons.
Her eyes are numbed. She is drawn to eves like this; made to make merry with specters; to unravel that tarnished weave; to wonder as their sagas met out like muted actors forsaken by theatre they so cherished. Their shadows; the thralls of them; this night. Pages all now vying to be written; parchment to be put into her mind; the scratch of script that truth too often limns with myth. She aches for that deep and delicate dawn; promises pressed to her lashes, her lips. When?— O! that she would take flight from these mists to his!

Bewitcher is what he be;
and for two morns and an hour he had been hers. Hers — the lady of the Moonspire had yet to be awares of the wishes of her Court ... and the stricken must procure to them notwithstanding her own yearning.

Tormentor!

She aches and aches and aches; her spirit longing and lamenting for that which had been lain before her; beleaguered with a suffering, another's sacrifice; this primidorial ache that she cannot be near. Amethyst eyes an age-old blight to her ardent and refigured heart. Andraste damns him; forbids herself from its intonations; swears away the syllabary of the blest omen that is his name.

When it was decided, she must give tell to Hydra within the next few morrows.

So. She hadn't fully given Vengeance the whole truth. Yes, the bewitcher was searching for a place to resurrect her Family's spirits. But she'd heard the word of another pack forming in the valleys, not too far to the north. Not far enough, at least, to not propose competition.
That was the word anyway.

So, she decided that after she'd found a place, which she did, she would scout. And make a warning. They had to be gone.
She pressed her painted face into the growing border. Stronger than what had been reported; more numbers. She had to be careful, but the scents were all female.
Still, the females were the most dangerous. They were closer to Diablo.

A white form was reflected in her ruby eyes. Some naturalist, it seemed, for her gaze cast upwards often. Peering at the Night's Eye through the canopy and mist.
Scarred, so caution was needed. Some warrior perhaps. Pfft, a naturalist and warrior. Preposterous.
She rose on her silted legs, stepping closer with a curled tail, circling from behind. Never place yourself in front. That makes you a snack.

"Not the smartest place to form a pack...hm?"
Surely there were better places. The coast seemed plentiful.

Enquiry;
not from the throats of those who had sworn themselves to her;
instead echoing the foyer of a huntress' breast. And so, with pointed, gauzy notice, the stricken crescented about to seek this speaker beneath the burnished eve's gleam. A phantom of a smile.

"Perhaps,"  featherlight musings; low, somnolent chords,  "to those who are not of its mists,"
and drew from her muted soul the mantle of unassuming fright; a faux guise. Yet still, she must let the lurker think her unguarded; let the lurker think her unfamiliar with such invidious intent, skulking beneath those drawled tones. In both lives had the silver been hunted; so she presented herself as such; tail afeather at spindled hocks; the shorn spine curved against its angularity.

Let this lurker think her unversed in such pursuits;
if this ghoul so wished to deal with wit, or dance with wrath—
she must tempt her nearer, either way.

"Might I presume you are no mere wanderer?"

Her voice was feather-light. So utterly sweet for someone so marred. Perhaps that needed to be changed. 
She knew of injuries that changed the voice, made some sound harsh and rugged, or barely able to speak. 
She’d inflicted wounds like them before. 

“Nightwalker.” 
No. No mere wanderer. Perhaps the name would already cast a shadow of dread.
She seemed fearful anyway. Shying away from her presence. She shouldn’t approach, no matter how lovely she looked. This was business. 

“It is advisable you remove your pack from the territory.” 
The valley was theirs. 

This saccharine frailty towards beastly beguilment; how intimately she had come to know what aspects were slavered after! It had since been moons that she had cast down her own desecrator, and seasons since she had brought another huntsman to his finality. Both with aid—
( she should have never known )
—yet, admission of Nightwalker was given, and here the stricken brought the old quivering into her figure; drudged up from the marrow of old maladies. Yes, feigning a feeble fascination as she stept, timid and tentative towards that looming skull.

And when she gave pause at the next telling, she commits that scent close to her breast; 
but the specter of a simper only crescented the thin scythe of her shorn lips evermore. Oh, she must lie her ears down upon her ruff; she must cant her head, must shoulder closer—! and then draw away, swift; all abashed, poutful, pitiful, doe-eyed ignorance.

"Forgive me. I,"  an affrighted flush blooming beneath ruined cheek,  "I had no knowledge that there was another claim so near."  Whet her lips, atremble, yes—  "I am r-rather acquainted with z-ze Moonspear."

Be sweet and stupid and soft and sly,
churred the faerie within her breast.