Deathwish
im a DIY pioneer, they tryna get involved
Once again, she has slipped into nothing, playing with the shadow of the forest in the privacy of the trees. She is the last of the Cove. She has not been drifting looking for them. She is above them. She is above them all.
Grandmere’s voice was constantly in her head, and as Deathwish grew older, the magic of her grandmother was ever present—she had grown more beautiful. Her face was cold, and her body was perfect. Her lavender grey pelt darkened into points that were black as pitch. Weaving her body between the trees, she stops for a moment, spying some nameless citizens on the other side of the treeline.
Her silver eyes survey them all disdainfully, reminded of why her travels have kept her far from the company of others. They are all so stupid. She finds that she would rather spend her days with the dead, than the draining activity of the living. The black stench of her handiwork is a balm for the loneliness she feels, but then in the back of that quick-witted mind of hers, she knows she is less alone than she has been.
“@[Maugrim], you fool. Did you really think you could do this to me again?”
Her black lip curved disdainfully upward, his scent heady to her nostrils. Her pelt shivered with the sense of him, even before she ever laid eyes on him.
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