She had been prowling the jagged tombstones and freshly mounted plots, dragging her fingers through the trees and bending occassionally to touch a stone and close her eyes, imbued with its chill, its story of the person six and a half feet under.

The day had been long and she had faced it with difficulty, a growing need to displace herself entirely, head to the Hill and let the rope to the talking.

She sat then, in a slump, in a gathering of reeds and listened to the whistle of the cool air through them. A masterful feeling, of possibilities and cosyness filled her. She opened her eyes and reached out as they waved in the wind, and she decided to stay a while longer. She'd be a real dog to give up so quick...Though six years hardly seemed too short a wait.



"I am tired, I am weary I could sleep for a thousand years A thousand dreams that would awake me Different colors made of tears" 'Venus in Furs'-The Velvet Underground

Itchy grasses fed her their discomforting scent as she closed in on one of the newer burial sites, the weeds squashed from passing grievers or possibly robbers who too had her goal.

She wasn't going to rob a body, sillies! <insert eye roll here> She would wait to see the soul; how stiffly it clung to the body or ascended to the sky' Whichever option weighed less heavy on her conscious. She did have one!

'Gwydion'-she couldn't help but smile. The name brought to mind the sound of clavichords and clarinets, spiced wine and silks of minstrel taste; open courts and royal dances. She blew a kiss to the headstone and trudged off into the night. She would pay her respect to the strangers, maybe more in hope of closing a deal than in ..respect.

Next stop; the RDI haunted mirror.

Singled out, found and flamed skin the Seer had appeared by her feet; nestled in Gideon's arms she had fanned outwards, her eyes battering in comprehension of the imagery alive on the piece of paper.

Dampened knots of rope falling from the Gallows, a noose blown through the wind. She had been there, a slur of that same air, distant and faint. Not really there.

The wine glasses had whistled and the winds had broken down into fine, fine hairs, ruffling with her Death, tracking her down on all fours across the Land of Sand to Rhy'Din; when? She did not want to know.

Perfectly-fine arched brows lifted in shock as she was torn between absolutes. To go, to find, to chase, to question. So she moved to sit and ignore the quest, and instead, entrap her flighty heart with promises from a Skeleton named Julia Here. A woman of bones, but more spirit than she had seen. Hips that swung in promise and preen, that dared her into the night, to chase some lusty horizon, and possibly encounter the Hooded Claw.

Hecate be damned! She would not foster unguarded thoughts and be the Black Rider from this dreary wolf, the one that howled through the noose, that left her name on all bounty lists, excuses for bark and chipped with her initials.

She had taken to that Westend house, to hide away and sink into dusty sheets. Forgetting the comfort of all who sought her, including the distracting would- be?Fate" that was the death-ridden coat of the all-foured hooves. A quartet of horrors.

Eyes never closed as she watched the window through clouds of dust and dark. Even Death would not dare step through hear, not while she was stiff with her fight, ready to pounce, claw and tear. To Live. However Undead she was....

And then, the peculiar courting, a man seeking her blood as she did him, wanting the others death, catching it like a cufflink to the sleeve of hearts, another notch on the belt of Hunter and Hunted.

Her tongue her sword her sex her stiletto-knife. Blood blurred memories, and yet it was neither of theirs. It was his Kind who she had attacked, who sought her out. And he, he had unmasked himself and found her dear.

The sheets were no comfort, neither her strength. Too much disarray, and the chill air that snuck in warded off the dark and sucked in blinding, terrifying light...

Piled upon stone she was, the young vampire with the heart of gold. Slumped and fed up on her sugared desertations, she had let go the leather and the black and taken to a cream heshen material and made it a dress. Her hair was filled with plume of red-tinged black and her eyes were free of mascara stains and her brows were growing back naturally.

She felt a serenity settle upon her as she sat lone in the graveyard. not sheltered and not protected, she was vulnerable to grave robbers, muggers and the elements and it invigorated her. A Vision quest she was on, free of luxury and pretense.

Clutching in her hand a scrolled parchment tattered and candle-burnt, she stuffed it in her bosom and climbed into the nearest tree. To oversee her body below, and let her spirit roam free from the shell that was her body. Only once she had learnt, would she return to fill herself a steady in control spirit.