@solicies — seeker of the unholy.
The forest is still. Shadows run down the ground, gnarled and twisted in the shape of branches, black in the dark of night. Something skitters atop the trees, and two bright-lit eyes peer down at her. She smiles; it runs off. Hardly uncommon. The heart of the woods carries many ill wonders, and tonight, quiet, dark, cold, feels nearly the same as any other.
If Camille were a more ignorant being, she would not have noticed something amiss. A sweep of the arm and in Camille’s place flutters a crow, and its golden gaze scans the heart of the forest. There—her light, unbearably bright, and oh-so-holy, shines a beacon of radiance, leads Camille all the way to her. A knight striding through the thick of the forest, sword and shield by her side.
The Ebony Ram hath waited, and Camille exists to fulfill its tithes.
She lands behind the knight and in place of the crow stands Camille, clad in purples and golds and smiles. “’Tis a curious thing,” she says, and studies the woman in front of her. Her eyes must adjust to the brilliance, and she cannot help but to be amused. “Though every single one of you religious-types die at my hands, you continue to seek my end. You shall not have it.” She does not fear the knight—when has she ever had a reason to fear? She has the blessing of the Ebony Ram, and even now she can feel its ever-present direction, guiding her forth. Her hands, abnormally cold, ghost over the metal of the knights’ armour. Excellent make. The corvids would find it a suitable home.
“Tell me, Seeker,” she purrs, and glides almost carelessly around. “Are you not afraid? Are you so confident in your blade as to believe that I shall not strike you down where you stand? What is it that makes you believe so desperately that you may toe-to-toe with I, vessel of the Ram? Go on, darling.” Delicate fingers dance over her shoulders. “I await with slowed breath.”