Razor's Edge

It had been almost a week. The elation she felt at his touch and his expressions of love still called strong to her heart, but the other things - words of betrayal and manipulations coming from someone whom she had remembered for so long possessing the same traits as the one he spoke to her against. That night she had wandered Rhy'Din after leaving the Oak and Ash, after he had returned her against her wish. She had walked as if in a daze remembering the feeling of at last being loved by her father, being wanted and treated as a daughter should be. How she had so longed to feel his tender arms about her, sense his love and acceptance of her.

Her mind kept wandering back to the words of the stranger Miles Malign, the man who had happen chanced upon her after she had been returned to the Bloods' speakeasy. He had not envied her task he told her, the scales were balanced and she would need give careful thought. On one side she had her father, her Da; the man she remembered as bringing hell and torment to her very existence, along with the message from her dead brother Gideon. On the other hand, was the man who had been more a father to her and her sister born than any of birth. Who did she believe, whom did she trust"

Her eyes or her heart"

Her memories or the words"

Giving up that night on trying to discern the truth, tired feet plod slowly back to Onyx House and up the four flights to her and Strider's chambers. Already she can see the effects of her shielding at work. Something he had given back to her. See that was a kind and loving thing to do, she thinks. Peace reigns without the aid of outside forces as she closes her eyes to sleep.

The next few days her brain tries to wrap itself around the jumble of new information she has been dealt, there are many distractions keeping her too on edge to fully concentrate. Something she desperately needs to do. The dead maintain their distance, but this is beginning to wear on her nerves. They become much more insistent in their contacts only to be flung from her before they can make their cause known.

As the days pass, their cries become frantic before being silenced by her shields. She wishes that Da had given her the secret on how to cut off even that amount of annoyance. At least they no longer tug and toy with her and the throngs of them have died down considerably. Still, there are the diehards she guesses. Soon, with Da's help or her own studies she will master the problem of her shielding. Finally, once again, it becomes too much and she holes herself up within the walls of her and her betrothed's rooms.

Three days ago she had sat upon the futon, jacket on, slender shoulders hunched and in a foul temper as her plans to head out for the eve had been waylaid. Heading down the stairs that night to the front door a barrage of Path denizens had bombarded her with their cries, cries she could not make out through the operation of her barrier. She tried to break through it for the umpteenth time feeling there was an urgency that she should maybe look into, but her efforts were once more in vain. Giving up she returned to her rooms, sat upon the bed and fumed.

Shrugging out of her colors and dropping the leather to the floor in exasperation, she heard a thunk as it hit the carpet. Picking it back up, pale hands rummaged through the pockets and pulled forth the orb as fingertips brushed against the edge of something else. Reaching back in, she discovered the pot and the blade.

For three days she has sat like this: knees gathered to her chest, huddling in a dark corner of her rooms staring out at the orb, the blade and the jar laying at her feet. Sleep has not come as she endlessly runs over the incidents of that night, bit-by-bit, piece by piece. She has to know, but there is no one she can go ask; none that she would normally go to anyway. Strider is not here, and Tash and Papa Lank are too intrinsically involved for her to use them as sounding board for her troubles and questions. Slowly, absently, a pale hand reaches out and gathers up the pot of paste. The other one grasping the razor as confused silver eyes rest upon the image sphere before her.

In an instant she is there again, on her knees, on the floor of her room in Da's house, staring at the creature that had pretended at being her mum. Realizing, with sickening twists of her gut, that she has been duped, deceived. That she has perhaps stepped willingly to her own slaughter.

Pale silvers now look to the jar and blade within her hands as she recalls the sight and words of her brother, Gideon. He had come to her the walking dead as she shrieked and screamed her shock at his visage; slamming up against the wall while he held the peca out to her.

"You left us to die," his voice raspy in its whisper from the grave.

"Noooooooo! It wasn't me!"

"Why did you leave us to die?" dropping the paste filled jar to the floor, a razor appearing beside it as if it had always been there. "Why On'a" You were the chosen one."

"No," crystal tears fall free from moonwhite lashes, her eyes lingering on the paste. "No, not me."

"You are the prophet, the avatar. The gateway to the dead." Gideon shuffles nearer.

"I'm not chosen. I'm nothin'. Just ask Da," she struggles to stand; to seem less frightened by the sight of her own flesh blood like this.

"No. You know the truth, but you run from it. You left us all to die. Mother died with your name upon her lips. She cried out for you to save her."

Pale silvers rivet to the jar then back to the dead who is Gideon, shaking her head violently her voice angry and harsh. "I didn't run!"

"But you were not here, were you On'a?" A half rotting finger points accusatorially at her as Gideon sneers.

"I was exiled! I couldn't come back! You all let him throw me from my home, then ya let Tash fall under his hands!"

Gideon hisses low and flesh falls from his once handsome face. "Exiled?" laughter harsh and cold "And why?"

"It is you who are to blame, not me!" The wall at her back she faces him, seething.

"You broke rules On'a! You were the chosen! You were the only one who could save us. But you left us for Corwyn, the Fool of Oberon, to destroy!"

"I broke no rules! I was not chosen! I was ostracized and tortured!" This was ridiculous and she was beginning to have just about enough.

"Mother died at his hand! Corwyn, the Fool of Oberon, drove a blade deep into her heart and drank her soul!"

"No," pale silvers widen "No, I won't believe that," but this was Gideon, why would he lie like this"

"And you..."

"You lie." Did he" "You, the chosen, follow him. Lie?" pulling an image orb from a decaying pocket and dropping it to the floor, it rolls to her.

Her lips tremble, she looks again to the jar then back to Gid. "He cares for me an' Tash, he loves us better than Da ever did. Look what Da did to Mum, drained her essence till she was nothin'." "He wants your power. You are the avatar." Gideon stabs a fleshless finger at the orb.

"I am not the avatar!" she pounds her fists against the wall behind her in confused rage, eyes screwing shut tight.

"Father did what he could to save her from her own insanity. She could not deal with her gifts." Again he stabs a finger at that orb.

"It was Da who drove her there!" This was too much; her head was reeling.

"He did not. It was Oberon. He stole her from Da a long time ago. See, On'a."

The look of confusion still reigns upon her face as in her mind, and she grasps at something in desperation. Anything to throw him off guard of the web of deceit she figures he weaves with a master's hand. Her voice ringing forth, her pale face tilts defiantly upwards. "Then what of Malice" You sent him!"

"Malice is a fool. He seeks to use you like a dishrag then toss you aside. I did not send him. His father sent him."

The nod is slow to come and her chin begins to lose its challenging posture. She believes that. In this she knows he speaks the truth. So what of the other he has said" Could that also be truth' "Aye, ye are right Da." Her voice turns small with a tone of compliance. "I am sorry. Do ye forgive me?"

With that she waits, her breath nearly stilling as she mentally braces for the attack; body docile and unmoving, knowing from experience any other display will only anger him more and make the punishment worse. Instead, his voice chimes with sincerity of his love for her. "Of course, daughter. I love you. There is nothing to forgive, you have been used."

Looking around her, half-expectant of an assault to come from some source, the peca now safely in her pocket along with the blade, she twists the fingertip of an index finger between two others. "But if Papa is still in this realm, why don't we launch the attack here?"

"I shall be here to help as my own power permits me, but Oberon places blocks at every step. He is too strong here, On'a. We must force him to the other realm where those who would lend him strength will not be. It must happen in Rhy'Din where his power is diminished and the Ancients do not hold the power of persuasion they do here."

Is that bitterness that taints his words" She nods and frowns, uncertainty still dripping from every facial line. Then, as he finally appears before her, a little girl's plea falls from trembling roseblushed lips. She wants so much, so desperately to believe all this and she scrabbles to her feet, tentatively stepping forth to his outstretched arms opened to receive her. "Da" I have lost somethin' I needs back."

Enfolding her into a warm and loving hug, Khorathil soothes her with gentle caresses. "Yes, On'a, my daughter?"

Loosely at first, then tighter, she wraps her arms about him. This is all she has ever wanted in her whole life. His voice was never that tender in the past, she thinks. But, is that a vague memory or an implant' She remembers a better time when he held her like this and loved her, as a real father should. "Me shieldin' be broken," she snuffles quietly against his shoulder

Smiling, he nods while petting her moonwhite hair. "I shall fix it for you, On'a."

Stunned, she pulls back a little and pale silvers find his. "Really' It's hard without them, only?" Shamefully she lowers her gaze from his own.

"I shall help you, On'a," gentle fingers tilting her chin up then. "What is it, my child?" Those domineering silver eyes meet hers with love and adoration, and for a moment's breath she is swimming in bewilderment again as this is a scenario that seems but nothing out of dreams.

Guiltily she looks at him, whispering her disgrace. "Only abed peca'aryn helped. I be so sorry," and she sobs, tears flowing anew over drying tracks.

He nods again sagely, patting her back while pulling her once more into the embrace. "Hush now. That is something I knew. I gave you the power to overcome the Oberon, but he took it from you."

Tipping her head in question, moonsilver locks fall across her slim shoulders and he hugs her tightly, giving comfort like he has never done in the past. Or, has he" With tender touch he brushes stray silver tresses from her face and responds to the question in her eyes. "Yes, On'a?"

Hugging him so tight, wanting this to be real so hard, the wishing springs forth like power. "Ya mean the peca is all right to use?"

He smiles, feeling her want and need, his expression none but the most loving and gentle. Her words are barely above a whisper as she speaks almost to herself. "They tried so hard an' almos' died for me."

"They do not understand your need, On'a. They do not know the torture you are submitted to without it."

"I died."

"It is all right, daughter?" Abruptly he stops at those words and stares deeply at her. "Died" Was the Oberon there?" The frown he gives is intense and cold, more like what once seemed so real to her.

Tears flowing like rain down pallid flesh she shrinks a bit from his touch. "No, 'twas in the Oan'A. 'Twas Tash an' three others."

"Three" Which three, On'a?"

"Uhhhh..." looking back at him and nibbling at her lip, she tries to decide which way to go. "Then later Papa gave me a soul to bring me wasted flesh back to renewal."

"Corwyn?" He glowers. "Do not take anything more from him, do you understand" He will merely use it to exploit you."

In an instant she decides. "It was Julie, an' Ryon, an' Feyd Helston."

Patting her gently and returning to the fond father expression, smoldering silvers smile down upon her delicate face, a gentle hand caressing the hated birthmark barring her left eye.

"Papa helped Tasha too."

Another nod and again he frowns with what she construes as worry for her and her sister born's safety. "I see. Ana needs be told what you know, On'a. Explain to her, let her see the truth of his vileness."

Hugging him closer, she too nods. "Yes Da, I'll show her the orb." Wet pale silvers look around the room for it. "Where is it?"

Ignoring her question, he fixes the errant shielding then pulls from her smoothly. "You should return." Murmuring softly, the runic circle glows about her and swallows her into its folds.

She does not want to let him go. "No, I wan' to stay with you. Da!!"

He does not wish her to leave with the orb, this she can feel as if he spoke it aloud to her. "You cannot. Not yet. Get your sister and you shall both be with me forever."

Crying desperately, it is a little girl's need to be with her father, to be safe within the love he provides. "But I can send for her now, she'll come!" Holding out her arms, she begs. "Please Da!"

He gives her a slow sad shake of his head. "Bring her to me. Stand together in the circle and you will be brought back to us."

With that she is swallowed up, returned to the Oak and Ash from whence she had been taken. Her head bows, curtained by dandelion fluff, silver tears pooling at her feet on the floor of the tavern as she quietly mutters. "Aye, Da. I will not let ye down again. I promise with me heart an' soul."

Turning the peca jar over in slender hands, pale digits finger the razor's sharp line as her mind walks the same thin path. She drops her head back on her shoulders, thunking it against the corner she has huddled in for three days. To trust or not to trust, to listen and perhaps overturn a villainous deed perpetrated against her and her family, her and her sister born, or believe memories which could be false?

After all, she knew Lankyn's reputation; had seen atrocities with her own eyes. To ignore and be without that which she had ached for, for far too long, in the only memories she knew. One thing she did know, he was right. The peca helped. Since he had fixed her shields she was even more helpless than before. She needed to get out and to people, show them the orb, ask her questions, find the truth.

Her head lifts, eyes staring straight ahead to the frantic and near hysterical dead who try to reach her. One deep breath drawn, a crimson line against milk-white skin, and her walk is cut short as she plummets off the razor's edge.

For whom shall then oppose The Lights of Asag, Purifying Flames Come child, the Anunnaki, Judges of Ur, wait Truth is the Weapon no pity it holds "Heaving Earth" - Morbid Angel

Crimson leather creaks softly with each huffy step she takes. Slanted eyes filled with solid onyx look about the barren scape of Death's Realm. It has seemed like eons she has been striding towards that which she thought of as her destiny. As with any alternate plane, time ran strangely among the Paths. The tension emanating off her "company" did not help much, either. Not just the regular hangers on, the Denizens of Death that continually pluck and pull, tweak and prod at her; they are a vexation she is swiftly, if not begrudgingly getting used to as her lot in life. It was him!

Wheeling from his last cryptic innuendo, stomping down the path she has chosen for this ride, her eyes linger only on what lay ahead. Her thoughts turn inward and to the anguish her frame resounds with from the pull of her sister born's soul. Her feet carry her on despite the trepidation of what lay in front of her. He, of course, has followed. She knows it, can feel him there a step or two behind and to the left. What had he meant' Now savvy enough, she understands that like Oracular teachings and their ilk the dead seldom come out with the whole of anything. True meanings camouflaged behind frustrating arrogance when speaking to one of flesh and bone. Or, like the ones that poke and pluck at her constantly, their damnable neediness and one track mindedness for their own wants. She is learning fast the ways of burrowing through the patter, pushing them along to give her what she needs. Not unlike children.

Then there is him. He is altogether different. Not a child or even an angst-ridden adolescent defying the authority of her unwilling Motherdom to Death. He does not gather to her like moth to flame. Dead he is, unusually so, and his reasons for being here with her are of his own design. Free will. She senses it in the smell of him, the gnawing in her gut. Oh! This is getting her nowhere!

Stopping dead in her tracks, she rounds on him. Pale hands leave the confines of tight pockets and open imploringly outwards. Ebon eyes cast a look briefly at what passes for the sky and with a sigh her head drops back heavily to gaze upon the noble visage of this dead man following. "All right, Mor'dakai, or whate'er ya are. I give. What did ya mean?"

"Mean, dear child?"

Eyes roll in their sockets at this game of his, her foot tapping impatiently. "Aye, ya know what I be talkin' on. I said it was nothin' new for one o' my ilk to be alive down here. And, you said, 'Partially true, yes.' Now, can we cut through the crap and get straight to the point' What in Mab's name is that supposed to mean?"

His fine-boned hand lifts, floating arrogantly through the air and he smiles the most maddening smile. The words are laced with saccharine, and though the tone is genuine the mockery in his voice is implied. "My dear, dear child. I only mean that your stance within this realm is not like that of your forbearers. Surely, you must realize where it is you actually set foot."

There comes a distinct look of 'gods get me through this!' Angular features slacken, eyes close, and her head shakes slowly while she heaves another sigh. "All right, let's try this again, shall we" I'll endeavor to be clearer in my questions. A walk among the Paths is nothin' new to a necromancer. Me Da?" The shudder is barely contained and she looks back over a thin shoulder to where she knows he waits. "Malice, any number of ones I can think of, the Dark Gate is open to us. The roads within this realm traversed frequently. I set foot on them just as we all do. Now, what do you mean by me stance be nae like the rest' I be necromancer. Truth, the road I travel now has nae e'er been me choosin' but it seems I be stuck!" slipping in her growing frustration and ire to a speech pattern of old.

"And stuck you are, my child. The shadows parted."

The hold of his lanky frame, regal head canting slightly, Elvin gold tresses fanning across slender shoulders as if he poses for a portrait. His silver eyes focus just past her to the distance and she growls. 'So that is it for now', she thinks. 'Great! Just freakin' fantastic!'

Scowling, she spins in a pique and storms off down her path waving away with a hiss and snarl the mutters and moans of her dearly departed groupies, hoping against hope to leave him in her angered wake. Just as she resigns herself to ignore any further talk with this bane his manicured voice comes from behind her left ear.

"Oh, it might please you to know your family is gathered and it only awaits your arrival."

Mind screaming with exasperation, had she been looking she might have noticed a visible wince twisting the majestic countenance of her travelling companion.

She shuts off the now, too wired to wrestle anymore from him. Her mind swiftly gives way to other thoughts she isn't particularly jazzed about thinking right this moment. Family. That one word from pretty dead thing conjures a plethora of emotions, and she crunches along the stony trail with teeth clamping tight to the corner of her lip. Pale fingers rise and brush soft atop the fuchsia triangle barring her left eye. Blind to all around she is back beneath his tyrannical gaze, words of hate and revulsion ringing harshly in her mind,

Failure. Deformed. Worthless. Unworthy. 'Was he right' Is this journey an exercise in futility' I must save my sister born, but will I only endanger her further" And even though I'm sure of his motivations now since I saw the locket and knew the truth as held in Ana's eyes, what of Papa" Certainly he loves us. Me, as a Blood, as his Family within that circle, but will he wish to acknowledge such a misfit, such a fumbling, deformed outcast as myself"'

As recrimination upon recrimination sings inside her brain, arms cross and clutch tight about her midriff hugging herself for warmth and comfort as a sudden chill courses through her frame. Onyx filled eyes shining with moisture look about to the realm she walks in, moonwhite lashes blinking furiously to stay tears of fear and unknowing threatening to spill. So barren, so lifeless and flat as far as the eye could see. The Land in which she travels is gray and dead. It is surprising how she has never really noticed this in her brief previous trips. Also surprising she would think the Paths of the Dead would look any other way. Still, she can't help but imagine there should be something more to this plane. Shivering again, she kicks a rock from her steps and continues forth.

Her attentions wander in what seem like aimless ways. Reflections on her home among the Family of Bloods bring a smile to rosepale lips. There is warmth there, love. Even though, like most families, tensions come into play at times. Yet, she knows that with them she will always have home and hearth to come to. No matter what the future brings she belongs. She thinks on the pluses of her life within the Family. Her sister born is with her, something she greatly missed after the exile from the 'Lands. They have always been the closest siblings of the six, and now she knows why. The smile turns bittersweet as she ponders on the reality of their parentage. Lankyn, could it really be? Again, trembling fingers brush across that birthmark and she plods on.

Amidst her mental meandering she is half blind to her surroundings, but in beginning to think of perhaps the biggest plus to her life within the Bloods of Onyx she notes with astonishment a shape forming on the horizon. Silvered brow furrow, and brought to full awareness she pauses. The belated crunching from behind reminds her guest still follows.

"And just what causes one to call a house a home" Where and why do we lay our strength?" Mor'dakai's whisper seems to echo in the stillness.

Not looking back, she doesn't give him the satisfaction of her annoyance. Instead, her steps return resolute, striding for that distant shape. Once more her brain kicks in, a face flashing in her mind's eye, her own claiming a spectacular glow. Strider. He lay entwined in the lines of her soul, and to him she is inexplicably bonded for the long haul. She grins. The very thought of him and what they share, their love and the warmth she feels for her Family bring a renewal of faith in herself and her ability.

Body fairly thrumming, she smiles and brings her focus back to the Path she walks. Curiously, all around her now appears spotted with buildings and the trappings of? well, of life. Eyes narrow, she can find no better way to describe what she sees. Watching and walking, the citizens of this realm come from doorways, around corners and out of windows. All waving and calling greet as she passes. Some follow, taking up step behind Mor'dakai with the rest that continually cluster. Feeling at odds, just a touch more than strange (not that her life was much semblance of normal thus far), and not wishing to be rude, she waves and beams a smile back. Suddenly having the sensation she is the lead in some macabre parade.

Stopping, she takes a seat upon the protruding root of a gnarled tree and turns a wry grin at Mor'dakai. Motioning for him to join her, she leans a sharp elbow to a leather-clad thigh. For a long few moments she tilts her head from side to side, the bottom curve of her lip caught up between straight white teeth as she looks him over thoroughly. No dead gather to her with their usual fare of attention whoring. Instead, they draw close, their interest fixated upon her in anticipation. Finally, with a scratch to her chin, she sits up straight, arm falling to lie across her lap. "Where be I now?" she asks plainly.

"Amidst the Paths of Death's realm, my child," Mor'dakai states, a glimmer of knowing flashing sapphire ringed silvers.

"And when, say Malice walks the Paths, where does he travel?" silvered brow arching with a look that says, 'go ahead, be cryptic, I dare you!'

Mor'dakai gives a sly smile, pale hand lifting haughtily then dropping as she promptly counters with one tight shake of her head. His cultured voice comes measured but friendly, a smile on those pale lips, the Elvin gold head inclining with a new respect. "My child, you stand, or sit as the case may be, within Death's realm itself. Malice and your forbearers are but travelers amongst its shades. No living being, save for chosen few or one such as you, may step amidst Death's actuality. Necromancers use this lot and it them, but until their time on the living plane is done they are but ghosts to our reality."

The grin widens, electric surges flash through blackened eyes and her mind takes all this in. Absently, she lifts a finger and begins nibbling at the skin along its nail trying to place the words in her brain to the questions she wishes answered. In echo of Ana's sisterly gesture of old, Mor'dakai leans over and gently pulls her hand away. "Just ask, child."

"So, being ghosts to this reality they can't see past the shadows they walk?"

"Only that which we choose to show. Only those who gather to them for favors and the like." His smile and nod speak volumes; she is on the right track and his pride washes over her like a baptizing spring.

Light dawns, her face opens up and she beams. "You said this lot use us, for favors and questions, pleas and help. This I understand. Boy, do I ever understand that! Yet, ya also said we use it. Somehow I'm thinkin' now ya mean more than the usual of message bearer, or spy for lack of a better word."

She doesn't wait for the answer. Looking to the fold, she smiles and beckons the closest to her. A wraith-like woman rises and fairly drifts to her side. Mor'dakai's cloud silver gaze not missing a nuance, his smile brightens.

As Fuchsia's hand soars up through the small space between them to reach the specter's own, so does her mind. It is as if time stands still. The muddied past becomes strikingly clear. All that annoying plucking and pulling, the constant yanking and endless stabs for her attentions, it had never been all it had seemed. Her thoughts race back to the night her Da stole her back to the 'Lands and their family estate. Heavy with the DTs from her recent forced withdrawal from peca, no shields or substance to keep what plagued at bay, she begged him for his help.

At the time she knew it not, but he had provided her with her downfall, a small jar slipped to a pocket and in place of her barrier he erected one of his own. Thinking now with cleared head, was it any wonder that the yammering of the dead increased hundredfold" Their attempts to reach her before being thrown back by the shields becoming more persistent and near frantic. For the love of her Family and her betrothed, with strength she didn't know she possessed, she shut the door on the white dragon's den and denounced her Da's "help", eventually. Still, she didn't get the clue and the dead returned to what she erroneously concluded was to be her lot in life. Now she knows she had been horribly wrong.

Almost as if Mor'dakai can see and read the turnings of her mind, the light of satisfaction plays in sapphire ringed silvers. Pale hands clasp in his lap and he grins, watching the dawn of recognition break upon her alabaster face. Her hand reaches its summit and she takes careful hold of the wraith's near insubstantial appendage. The potent rush of electric energy all but unseats her, the petals of her mind flowering, senses awakening as never before. Like an explosion of celestial starburst, her eyes glimmer and coruscate giving way in a flash to true silver, her psyche open to the emergence of her destiny and all it can hold.

A lone crystal droplet falls from moonwhite lashes and she releases her grip. Rose blushed lips offer up a bright smile of gratitude to the woman's ghostly visage. Relieved laughter flowing forth, watching the specter move back to the fold, she chuckles softly as those nearest begin to pet and fawn, speaking words and thoughts to the shade Fuchsia chooses not to hear. It seems a private moment among them and she gives them due respect. Happy, tear-shiny eyes turn to Mor'dakai, one word breathlessly gushing, "Wow!"

"Wow, indeed," he grins radiantly, a chuckle of his own sending Elvin gold to dance about his form.

"I-is it like that for all of us?"

"No, my child. You will learn soon enough the joys and harsh realities that come from the position you hold. For now though, what have you discovered?"

A shaky hand brushes moonsilver hair from her forehead, slim fingers raking back the tangles behind the sharp points of her ears; her birthmark bared fully to the light of this new day. Rising, brushing off the crimson leather and knowing he will follow, she strikes out with renewed vigor; a bounce to her step, a design to her lengthened strides.

"I know my sister born is not here. The soul drake's death at Da's hand flung her from this realm. But Da" Khorathil still holds Luse's soul and the essence of the OandA's demon protectorate, Tral." The next words catch hard in her throat. "Lankyn is here. Grimmy's rider, Gabriel, gave the kiss so he might come to his daughters' aid and confront Khorathil, though where he is I cannot tell!" Her fist pounds a leather-encased hipbone as the ghostly procession advances. "And mother is here. She walks like me within this realm. I can feel her rage but I cannot feel her spot. Him though?" Her molten gaze narrows cruel and pitiless, one hand lifting and pointing to a place on the near horizon. "He I can feel. I know where he lies now," the word 'lies' taking on a double meaning that Mor'dakai finds apparent in the snarl that leaps to rosekissed lips. Behind his own feral smile lay a double meaning as well, but her goal is too near, her aim too focused for any thought to be given anything but what is set before her. Moreover, if his small snort of a chuckle she construes as camaraderie towards a common plan, so much the better.

Her heart beating fierce and quick in the cage of her ribs, her steps swift and sure, one hoarse whisper flows past her mouth's hard line as she leads that ghastly parade, "Truth is the weapon, no pity it holds."