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The joys of Andri'ante recorded in a Sort-of-diary! Part 1 The steps taken echoed through the various caverns of the Witch's home. She was a meager figure compared to the looming ice, dressed in clothes unsuitable for a winter's storm - yet her movements were fluid and she seemed to be free from the embrace of the cold. A somber expression would have settled on her visage, lips thinned as frozen gaze was sent to the opening of the dining area. She was still an Izalith child, a Tilruir'mali of Haelun'or. She halted her steps promptly with evident distaste. Her feet met the puddle of crimson staining the powder of snow, trailing to lead up to the various bodies stacked in a pile - a stack of men weeping red. Her flaring blue gaze rests upon them, squinting as her brows would lower. She places her hand on her mouth, bile rising as she would refrain from gagging. Delicacies she favored in her prior days had begun to taste like ash - and she wondered (guiltily so,) if the pile of dead could quench the groaning of her hunger. A dainty hand would almost reach for them. The Mali would quickly decide otherwise, it would seem, as she promptly dashed away. She cornered herself near the chairs, sliding to sit near it as her back would slump on the table - figure facing the pile of men. She tried everything to distract herself - she opened a book once more, she wrote the useless letters. Yet t'was for naught as the sense of curiosity dawned upon her. Her own food had fallen to ash. A tapping of feet would echo through the cavern. A man would meander within - pale hair sprouting from his head, pale skin noted - carrying the body of yet another dead man. She guessed who he was quite easily - for who else would dare enter, or could even enter, a witch's home? "Hungry?" The newly arrived figure would question, a brief glance settling on the seated Andri'ante. "No." "New mistress, or a new disguise?" He questioned, easily dumping the body with the rest. "Neither." She sneered almost to herself. The conversation was brief, lashes of words offered to the mali from herself. She dreaded his presence - perhaps in her more composed days she would have been more careful and thoughtful of her words - yet the mali did what the mali did. She admitted to her hate for this curse. "I can either be merciful and kill you, or you can accept this curse." He merely stated in response. The young frost witch did not touch the offered food even after his departure, head lowered to her knees as she would close her eyes and shield herself from the cold.
