Wind runs through her mane.

[Nykeln]

NYKELN the key to life is often death The meadow was becoming my haunt, the shadows of the copse of trees that spotted the vast clearing made perfect darkness for me to blend into. My inky frame slithers through the trees, snapping bark beneath my feet as I travel, a quick jog, limbs pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling. I'd been concealed by the night, bidding farewell to my ghostly queen, ready to be her pawn in this game of chess. But my haunting lady, Chantale, her cold skin, her dead eyes, they were after something more than checkmate. I listen to the sounds of the day, the chirping of birds, the torrents of the river. All is a background noise to what I really hear. Thud. Thud. Thud. I crane my head, hearing it, faintly. It's close, the pulse of flesh and blood, the ripe heart ready to pluck from a warm, beating chest. I lick my dry lips, in visioning what it's like. Chantale had said things, in her cold melody. I was in rapture then, my own ideals pressed against her like a gun to my own head. I twist beneath it and all is lost, but do what we both want, the world, it would be ours. I can be such an idealist at times. I smirk then, a crooked feature tainting my ebony lips. I step out of the shadows and climb rocks, expertly a shadow merely staining the cliff face. The closer I get, the louder it feels against be, within me. Thud. Thud. Thud. Tender and red, ripe and fleshy. I lick my lips again and finally emerge from the rocks to the top of the Cliff, where I spot the life source. I confuse our heartbeats then as mine quickens in delight, in wonder. I have knowledge to obtain and that comes from eating hearts. Where else could one possibly begin to learn of the world? The heart seemed to rule many, it would just seem apt to take that part away. I step closer, my lofty frame quite a tower compared to the dappled mare, my long, curled tresses damp against my neck as the sun beats down upon me with hot, sticky fingers. I come close, closer, reach out my velvet muzzle and speak, a serenade, a haunting lullaby, sickly sweet and as innocent as daisies popping up from graves. 'Precious little thing like you, all alone. Care for some company?' and i'm holding the key