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[color=silver]𝓢he was black on black; blanketed in ebony and obsidian waves of fabric against coal-hued veils and hide, pale face and kohl-smudged eyes brimming blue liken to cemented, dead forgeries in the winter. A specter she is, a reaper bathed in slick red smiles and coils of hair reminiscent of serpent-haired maidens. She's all bone white with silver ticked fur adorned over her shoulders and streaming behind her elegant posture do silver charms eerily ring, her funeral tole. Giselle leans down close against heaving withers and adjusts to the shift of her mount galloping headlong along a predetermined course. There's dust in her eyes and her thighs are already aching -- because she hasn't ridden in a long time, but Gabriel had insisted they all go and with new mounts at the ready -- but her blood is [i]singing[/i] and adrenaline pumps hard and thick in her veins and she urges the grey-dappled mare all the more by digging boots into her decorated flanks.[/color][/cell][/row][/table][color=silver]𝓣o the left they had said, and whilst Giselle guides the mare after the flighty buckskin carrying Amara, she feels a subtle pulse in the air that suffers heat and a [i]pull[/i]. Almost an instinctual sensation that pings something deep within her coiling belly, she flinches the moment sparks fall around hooves and hocks and draws back at Gabriel's carrying baritone. It's magic all right, though of a different construct and intention, capsuled in specially blown glass interlaced carefully with enchantments courtesy of pyro aficionados. She has ever seen the like, but only has heard of their use in passing. Giselle peers through the black veils pulled over her veneer, attempting to judge their trajectory the moment she witnesses Amara thrown from her horse and cinches her fingers tight against the reins, pulling hard to the opposite of their track, veils rising above her crown and coloring her presence darkly as she slows. Giselle hardly understands the bonds of camaraderie, after all, she's been surviving on her own merits for years, but she finds something ill in allowing the younger woman to fall beneath the wagon or threat of fire. Perhaps it's her image, all manipulative delicacy and pale hair, dark eyes that shimmer black and dangerously so with a keen intelligence privy to assassins.

𝓦hatever it may be, she thinks in the moment, that she's meant to assist her and when she hoists herself up and over, the mare gallops that much harder from the descent despite the added weight on her quarters. Her brow lowers into something akin to a scowl at their distance and the weight of her sickles hidden beneath the veils at her hip are that much more apparent at her own disadvantage. Amara was meant for this range, and she attempts to keep her horse steady along the road as her arrow pierces through the air and straight through a man's mocking laughter and impaling deep past his flesh. She grins at the sight, relishing in such a bereavement and almost sings in mirth herself as they begin to hide. Such attempts would only serve them quicker to their death beds, they had signed the warrant of their demise the moment calloused palms curled over infected glass. Giselle keeps her body low, risking a glance at the weave of Amara's voice through the commotion, bell like and a little shrilly as she suggests their next course and silently Giselle nods her consent and releases the controls the moment her slight hands curl around her waist. 

𝓢he doesn't hesitate -- she thinks she maybe, sort of, trusts Amara [poisons aside] compared to the other members of the Guild, some are crazier than her after all, and maybe it's because of their shared gender -- but Giselle lifts a few veils away from her person, coils them within her hand and turns.

	[color=ddd5d2]"Get in her closer, once I get inside, keep to the left, and if you see a chance to shoot - [i]take it.[/i]"[/color]

𝓣he silver within her hair chimes madly the moment she shifts her weight around and coils her figure tight, almost felidae like and contorts her body slight enough to not hinder Amara's controls. The mare blows hard through her velvet nose and with one hand coiled with sheer fabric, and the other through her greying mane, she bunches all the weight into her legs the moment the caravan comes nearly parallel and launches herself at the crates their sudden enemies have chosen to hide behind.

𝓢he falls hard, the jarring impact loud to her ears and her shoulder takes the brunt of the impact before she forces herself into a roll from the crate she has landed on and crouches down low and [i]hisses[/i]. Magic pulsates thick in the air, heady and coating her skin in a heavy heat that beads sweat on her dark brow.

	[color=ddd5d2]"Hello, boys."[/color]

𝓖iselle is a dark whorl smudged betwixt blossoming reds, her veils fanning outward and the ones previously coiled in her grasp used to sheath around stricken faces, masking and blanketing them in sheer darkness before her sickle shines and slick and heavy, it strikes across one neck that weeps over her fingers and there's blood that falls suddenly like rain. She laughed and abandoned her mark and pirouettes to face her next opponent. There's two that have abandoned their magical explosives, but the others have taken to launching them still at the others, and showers of flame and sparks fly, reflecting eerily in crystalline eyes. Giselle takes her sickle, her lips parted on panting breaths whilst her tongue coils against the sharpened blade that shines against bone white teeth. 

	[i]Two down. Now c'mon fellas, time to get to work.[/i]

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