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[color=silver]Victory came at the proceedings of carnage, elegantly or barbarically undone by methods deemed cruel by the mortal givings of their existence. Giselle witnessed the shine and [i]ping[/i] of life bleed out into bland monotony; flat and [i]lifeless[/i] with her blade slick and curved deep to the forged hilt into one man patterned in grime. Silver charms twinkled eerily against ebon hair that stilled around a dementedly contoured face of this would-be reaper, and thus he fell, hands clutched against silver fur and obsidian veils and she watched, curiously so, as he sputtered and cursed her very being. Ironic, wouldn't it be, if he knew her life was already adorned in the dressings of the forlorn and forsaken. Giselle proffered a silent simper laced to the teeth with a stoic malice and slid her sickle free from flesh, and nudged with her boot to send the body onto the road and beneath the wheels of the carriage and the hooves of those following.[/color][/cell][/row][/table][color=silver]The horses stilled and fell back, with their bindings now loosened, there was nothing to insist their heavy charge and whilst the caravan slowed, Giselle wiped free the remains against her blades, fingers slick and heavy, burdened with life and sin and they trembled doing so. It was some[i]thing[/i] akin to excitement at the mayhem she had procured and, as one of the boys might put it, a job well done. To work for someone else had never given Giselle the report of loyalty and pride to a higher being, however there was something pleasurable still in taking these lives and knowing she had done so without a hindrance that was utterly flawless. At the appreciative whistle, she knew just that, and allowed her simper to beam into something widely satisfied and, perhaps, a bit manic and bordering something feral. Of course, she would not be the perpetual specter within the eyes of the dying otherwise, so such a garnish was befitting no matter how woefully demented. 

Adorned in silvery intonations, with pleasing lit and charm, Amara offered her mount back into her graces and Giselle almost cooed at the beast for displaying such loyalty, even with having only been under her charge for perhaps a few days of practice. She rose gracefully to do just that, for she was not keen enough to pilot a carriage, when her boot struck against a poorly contained satchel and from it rolled glass orbs boiling within the rose coloured sunset. Brimming with fire and life, demanding that they explode and be struck upon the earth, as per their creation, and tempting to the woman in their remains. Her eyes lit up, briefly, alighted with a scholar inclination and want, a curious mind baited by the givings of magic and pain of it. Giselle carefully bent at her knees, kneeling as if allowing herself a moment of reprieve and waited, watching Amara fixate her attention else where, and whilst she engaged in banter with -- [i]Willard[/i] -- yes, that was the name. It flitted seldom across her mind, usually associated with that curling, bitter taste of magic that surrounded his impression in a lamplight of madness. Giselle inhaled, sharp like slivers, ice in her veins and shining in her eyes as delicate fingers curled around globes of hellfire and swiftly pocketed them within her veils -- hidden, yes, to be examined.

Giselle was a curious creature, a woman that pursued the findings of life and carefully scribes them within the flickering candle light in her evenings. She claims, often that the means are meant to be's and must haves, that she is the one who must do them for nothing else will quell the musings of her mind warped and hellish bound. 

She dismounts from the bloodied transport, mindful of her new possessions and grasps hold of the halter of the mare, loosely brushing fingers against her decorated mane and tugs loose the reins from Amara's hold, bringing her back around from Willard's attention. 

	[color=ddd5d2]"Thank you for keeping her, I'm no good with carriages -- well, steering them anyways -- so I'll ride along side."[/color] Giselle admitted and stepped around, allowing Amara to descent from her temporary mount and board the vessel now under her care. The others it would seem, had taken to similar purposes, following after Gabriel's call that they bank East wherein a small town laid, a blemish upon the road, she remembers, called Braven. Fitting, her mind supplies, and she hosts herself back upon the dappled mare and steers her along side Amara's guidance, keeping herself at the flank and back, taking up a rear position of their stolen caravan of bounty.

Giselle had been privy, once, a long time ago lost in the shadows of night and memory, to the darkness of the Wildlands in the cover of pitch and wonder. Of what rutted among the browse and called in the night on capers of raven song and howls of addled creatures. Things that, by her observation, were warped eternally by something suspiciously similar to a magic infested artifact bridled under queer enchantment. Crystalline eyes panned towards the thicket of their hidden passage, the road hardly traversed by the undergrowth teeming about their hooves, the bodies left behind would appease and assuage curious appetance of those manic beasts drawn by the magic used today. And so, with that small, careful thought tucked into a reassured mind, Giselle lifted the veils upon her features and bounded her eyes straight ahead and urged her horse into keeping a steadier pace.

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