The house that somehow straddled both the human world and that of Halloween was not particularly a favourite "haunt" (har har) of Shaheen's, not with with it's incessant fog and whispers that clung to and scraped against the edge of her consciousness, but it was at least good for one thing, more often than not.
It was a place where she could hunt down those who scorned her kind, and leave them torn apart, eviscerated, their desperate pleas choked off by their own blood. And was their ever such a sweeter scene?
No.
Never.
And thus, the war horseman,
chieftain of her people, a
queen among peasants by her own self proclaimed standard, found herself in those eerie and hallowed halls, with wisps of fog coursing from her wings to mingle with that all around her, the rustle of soft feathers that brushed against the walls, the soft fall of bare feet on wood, the whispers that only she could hear...
She was humming a disjointed tune when she emerged from a roiling, billowing, surge of fog that had rolled through the hallway, eyes a golden glow in their pits of darkness.
"Hello, little one." She smirked, the sound of her strange little song cutting off quite abruptly when she spoke, "I hope you were not intending to leave?"
