She walks in darkness, shrouded in shadows. Creeping along the jagged shards of onyx depths, her hungry eyes prying every corner, pricing the weight of malice against the insult of joy.
The veined poison of hidden spitefulness, poorly disguised in supercilious counsel that cloaks barbs of venom within its raspy linings. The pale pallor of disappointment past, present and anticipated future colours all her sightings of deeds, words and imagined slights.
Her avarice for that denied her and granted to unworthy others dilates the blacks of pupils to glossy, ebony visions of openings to rend and pierce with her sharpened talon.
Her bêtes noires are many. They form the unwashed masses of innocents wallowing in their mindless little clouds of joy. Like well-fed cherubs polluting the heavens with their insipid songs of love.
She longed to shatter the earth, dry the seas and flatten the mountains to reveal the rank blasphemy wrought by the heavens by allowing the existence of such ignoble multitudes.
Her hair she flicked back in defiance. Her visage she felt had nought to hide behind inky hair or veil or shade. Unlike the painted, inane harlots that littered the courts and stank the air with their over-perfumed affectations.
Low born pretensions, high born condescension. She played her pieces with a recklessness spawned from unwarranted arrogance.
Black taffeta rustled, shadows glided. Soft candlelight flickered and waned as its luminous aura faded a little in the vacuum of darkness that slithered the halls.
Some heads turned, others avoided. A few stabbed her with jaundiced eye, either former victims or silent foes. Many looked on fondly, unaware of the snares and pricks of her many unsolicited advice, well-played false flattery, double talk and play.
Swearing complete fiefdom to romance, an arbiter of honeyed words, she was matchmaker to the willing and Iago to the weak.
The world owed her and she intended to collect.
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