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She'd hardly given him a second glance at first, except for cataloging him - human, called Horn, on my side, looks like this. There were so many people who dazzled and spoke loudly.

Slowly, other labels begin to attach themselves to him. Competent. Knows about money. Knows about how to get things. That dagger. It isn't until the morning that the picture comes together - the determination, the offhand comment about the Comte. That tight, thin smile.

She felt like running away, or crying, but slowly she was coming to see that the world was like this, and these people were her best option.

That the only safety was insanity, and everything ends in blood.


Is it undead?

Seems to belong to Havocstan. Not introduced. Not sure if it's friendly.

That's a disturbing face to wear if it is among the living.


That one. Symbol. Angel? Undead?

One of theirs. Ours. Theirs. An argument. Probably undead then. Not bad looking.

I kind of want to stroke her muzzle. Is that wrong?


She saw them from time to time, the girls with their hair covered, not really looking in her direction. She wanted to say hello, to introduce herself, to play with the shiny things that dangled from some of their headscarves, but they were always busy or guarded or she made up some other excuse because she worried of what they might think of her.

Their men were terrifying and all serious or important or distant, and none of the people she thought of as her people interacted with the girls directly while she was there, so she couldn't introduce herself on that pretext.

She'd get around to it eventually. Not today.