A fragile toy she played. Eternal heart she wept. Glassy eyes with dark demeanor, she yearned. Forever being she lusted. Forever dead. The suns rays a part of a world she left behind millennium ago, just over seven. She had seen ages pass by with a breath, the mortal life time a mere second. She had changed flesh, bone, and being a hundred times over with lips a permeant shade of night. Eyes, much like flesh, porcelain, with a frail touch of milky blue. She lingered close, movements like a snake, counted, calculated, taken with an ease of long dead sanguineous beasts. Dead muscles flex taunt just under tattered leathers. A small, but nefarious surprise swayed close. A killer, a drinker of children's blood. She'd show lack of emotion but there was no need, the permentaly scared iniquitious feeling about her gave enough away.

It was always a terrible moment when Silence entered the halls of Hell, Pain-wracked visages wordlessly mouthed cries, curses, entreaties. Talon, scourge and hot iron bit into yielding flesh. The sound of each and every shuffling footstep, creaking joint, rasping breath, magnified to the power of countless millions of lost souls crammed into every fissure, niche, and crevice--all gone suddenly, completely, and hauntingly still.

It was not just the absence of sound; it was its utter negation. All that took place in her presence had an eerie, unreal feel about it. It was as if all the torments of the Legions of the Dead were a sad sort of pantomime. A ritual act whose meaning had become obscure, lost long ago.