The Heartwood play me like a violin

He could feel her anger like a grumbling storm, casting slate-grey shadows over the sky and hissing like a rapid downpour of rain -- you, she spat, and the reaper felt a smirk tugging at his lips; he was despised by many... her own hatred would do nothing to irk him. A frigid gust of wind chose that second to whip around his crown, fur of dark silver swaying before settling -- a flurry of snowflakes dusted his pelt, delicate lacings of white to bless the solemnity of his coat. He appeared nothing but a king of death, watching over his desolate, fallen kingdom of debris.

Ravenous.

Deep in the crooks of his pallid skull, he felt the desire to move closer, to see if she would play his game again... but he also wished to remain at a distance, to see what move she would make. To see if she would run, or stay. He was hungrier than he had been before; if he felt the pointed edges of her incisors poised at his throat, he could not speak of what he may do -- when he was close enough to feel the thrum of her heart, he would be driven purely by adrenaline. His expression hardened then, covered by what remained of his silent, speculating blankness. Now, she would have no clue what he was thinking, no clue what perilous thoughts were rushing through the knight's head.

He continued to watch.