A breath in the night could offer an awakening. The bliss of shadows rolled across her flesh. She was just a bit of aftermath in the twilight comfort of the night. Those darkest hours.

Speak to a soul. Channel a Demon. You would know this hour as the Witching Hour.

Fifteen minutes before the tick tock of a clock to midnight born for good magic. Fifteen minutes after and you might cross into the cross roads of torment and tragedy.

Five minutes before midnight offered a shadow weaver to step on to cobblestones. Expected was the resonation of clicking and clacking of boots. Instead she walked in silence.

Beauty of the night.

A bag tossed over shoulder, slick as a drenched cat but she would not yowl a protest.

The witch would smile in the rain and the mist.

Ghost Town. Deserted found was an old shop. New Habits.

At approximately 11:59 that night the air would fill with the sweet spiced scent of Grotto Spice.

Cake.

It was the sweetest thing to create in the roughest hour of her life.

All left behind without a look back. Time to start a new. No longer to seek the ruins of her old home, the Hawkborn's chambers abandoned, the cottage in the Glen was no longer hers to inhabit.

The Angel had her wings and had found love.

The witch was drenched in twilight and kisssed by rain. For once as her fingers twisted in the cords of the summoning stone and the bit of raw amethyst, it all seemed to make sense.

She shielded him from Ghost Town. Beloved Vincent. If he came here might they take him? It was something that she would not think of now. The comfort of his presence was enough. A sweet, soothing bliss from the otherwise complicated chaos of her spirit.

A moment of calm. This was the reason she lingered and remained. Well. Only one reason. There were many that she found day by day her heart would confess to. It seemed the Death Angel had opened her eyes to her own secret revelations. The affection over the Archmage.

Now alone again in the ruins and remains of the residence of Ghost Town, she found the building had adjusted again. Accomodated to morph and readjust.

The silk of the evening was stripped from her flesh. A glance spared over shoulder to the distortion of a broken mirror's reflection. Seven years bad luck. The notion left her smirking. Far more years then that had been bad with luck.

The scar still seemed fresh. Chasing jagged lines from right shoulder to left hip. A line to open if given a moment to bleed again.

Fresh silk chosen. Drawn like safety, security. Reassurance to enrapture her heart.

Match was struck, cupped in palm to secure the flame. Touched to candle of purest white.

She would not pray.

There were hundreds, if need be thousands of candles to ignite in a bathing glow. Keep away the vultures.

Lani never would chase away the night, it was ever part of her soul, but she would push away the pain.

For once she yearned for a love left and allowed to bloom.

He was sacred to her, and that... if discovered, could break her.

The greatest weapon no matter if to be used against or used to serve, perhaps the love of a witch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YNCS9DLsZg

Call me 'evil' little sister
I guess i'd do the same
Little sister
You'll forgive me one day


Time. It passed and wove. A complex web. The past would follow. Karma. Prone to return for punishment of her old ways.

The mist rolled out, a fog born beast to lick at her ankles. Standing in the cemetary she struck a match across a headstone, murmuring in french an apology.

Dark honey on her tongue that pleading for forgiveness. Sombered and soothed by the ignite of clove. The heady spice that packed the clove with more then just an intoxicating fixation.

Her arms embraced her waist in a solitaire claim as she stared down at the graves of those unknown. She would not walk on them.

One hand held clove between fingers as she exhaled her breath to the fog, tendrils of spice crawling spiders. Skitterish foals in the air given hooves of cinder.

Reflective Lani watched them run away. Black diamonds trailed after their ashen tails.

Sigh breathed out.

These were her hours. Separated from those moments where the spirit could know lust or love.

A palmed caress of the trinkets she ever wore. Closing her eyes.

She would save her sister. Valendria witch with those soulful blues. Not born by blood to be family yet Krysanthe was her Light. Laniandra was her Dark.

Krysanthe was trapped, Light captured and Lani?

She... was just lost.

Empathic witch with a tortured spirit paired with a Light bringer lost in the shadows.

Sigh exhaled. Nervous nip down on the clove.

Family fragments...

Love lorn.

Karma cursed her to be tied to one that played the game so well.

She closed her eyes.

"Forgive me."

A beg. A wish. An ache in words.

Those ribbons that bound her would be severed.

Solitaire for heart strings.

Karma had won again, and the witch... ever would fold.

So you heard I crossed over the line
Do I have regrets?
Well, not yet

There are some, some who give blood
I give love
I give
Give-Tori Amos

Long ribbon of road, Miles she seemed to have walked on the outskirt of the road, those silent boots had been peeled off as the witch walked with stocking feet back to her home in Ghost Town.

Home.

Black diamonds shifted, turned to the sky. She knew the shadows followed her.

Bone weary, soul tired. Boots tossed aside in the corner forgotten as she entered her home.

Locked doors. Unlocked doors. It wouldn't matter. There was only one way to keep the beasts, the nightmares at bay.

Hundreds of candles lit in her room. White burning glow.

The witch knelt on the floor admist them all before easing down.

Laying on the floor with a close of eyes, draw of knees.

New Orleans. The reminder of home had come to her from the lips of wicked temptation.

In the same companionship of her not so distant past it all was too much.

Dark paths spiraled as options before her.

The Witch no longer cared.

All that was left was candle glow...

That left of her soul devoured by shadows, by darkness