The enchantress moved along, her gaze scanning the perimetres of the large stone block with an amorous eye-a fondness for gothic architecture from that when the wicked trigger stung her eyes with wanton needs to drain the night of its juices and glimmer with the heart of its seed.

Pressing her body against the wall she smiled softly to herself, fingering the worn gray stone with eager red finger tips, her nails scratching the stone surface as she smiled to herself and absorbed the feelings and energies that once walked these now vacant grounds.

"The hum burgundy, a wrought vine and sallow flower face, all taunted by drops from a sulking sky..."

She smiled as she hummed the metaphysical prose her father, long gone, had once whispered as she drifted to sleep of a night. The sounds of larks calling across the thickets of the wasteland to her right sped her hearts pace into over drive. She felt within and of a composition, orchestrated with delicate hands and a tiny flame, as she moved with the song of the world chiming like a small bell in the halls of her heart.

The moon would reveal with its light more of this ghostly ground, as her form hinted towards the decrepit loom of a building, and she breathed in the chill of tales that lingered on the air and burrowed within her heart, to nestle there.

"I shy away from the neverland with a finger in the pond of my dreams, where nebula fish unearth themselves, scaleless and flipping in moonbeam. The dark curse that haunts the girl, will wear her soul in black and assume her eyes in grey. She meets the sky with rays of shade, and consumes you blade by blade..."

Curling against a wall she flicked to light a cigarette and perched it on her lower lip, stuck out against the night to absorb the tastes on the air. She smirked as she inhaled the sweet dew of smoke, and watched its tendrils curdle in the air, to flower into patterns and disappear into eve. She felt the Kindred that haunted her, that saw her a woman of their own heart. Yet even now, at her most distressed, she was overjoyed, but quietly, as she bent to sit a top a broken stone, of what was once a stair, and continued her inhalation and exhalation of a cigarette that burned slowly, similar to her memories that one day, she would forget. The people that would wane as the moon, and come Sun, only their faded faces would remain, akin to when shadows wink to nothing, and but an imprint of what was, wavers before your face..

All manner of scavengers called WestEnd their home. From insects to those that walked on two legs (or four! Winged! Taloned! Fanged!) and thought themselves rational thinkers, the denizens of the bordlerland between Old and Up coveted the obscure, the overlooked, the trash that would be their treasure.

Crows were particularly suited to WestEnd. Boisterous and disorderly murders roamed the skies and dominated the perches where no stately Raven or Rook would call home. They felt themselves more at home in less dilapidated climes. A few crows stirred high above the woman wandering the shadowed garden, whose ghostly figures, posed and poised, still commanded life. Life that was real and not predestined or determined. Life that those in WestEnd coveted most. Life without borders.

Amongst the overgrowth another prowled. This one with course fur of honey silver. A ghost amongst ghosts. A predator. A scavenger who called WestEnd home more than any other. On silent paws it stalked the woman while above the Moon broke free of the gauzy veil of Summer clouds.