"Heart of hare...check," Lamia said absentmindedly, as she blinked at the furry, mangled corpse at her feet. She shook her hands, flinging excess blood onto the forest floor. The organ in question-so small!-was safely ensconced in a little glass jar, the jar itself at the bottom of her satchel. She once again questioned the usefulness of such a thing, the heart of such a completely powerless, miniscule little creature. The spellbook she had procured indicated that hares had extraordinary magical qualities, however, and that their body parts were quite frequently utilized in her craft.
"Should have replaced it with bloody wolf heart. This is not going to work. This is not going to work at all," she muttered pessimistically, shifting her satchel from one arm to another as she turned right, on instinct, wandering down a random, wayward path in the forest.
The exercise she was attempting was one of flesh-mending. Making Hollow Men, or corpse-puppets, as she was fond of calling them on occasion, was easy enough, but they died so quickly, at the hands of any skilled warrior. For stupid passerby who decided it was a good idea to try and come near her home, they worked splendidly, but for anyone else who was even remotely skilled combatically, they were nothing more but scarecrows. Scarecrows, she thought, with an angry sniff, that required a lot of laudanum. And laudanum was expensive, damn it.
What she was trying to do was rather than sew the soul of the deceased to its corpse (she would not allow even the vaguest possibility of free will or coherence with her guard dogs) she would use the magical properties of their shadows, instead. Doing so would allow bones to mend themselves, wounds to close back up instantaneously, blood to suck back into the skin. (blood that she herself would need to provide, of course, but she had gourds of it.) Naturally, messing with shadows was not advised with any sort of mage (Lamia had no reservations about anything, magically) but that's what all the hokey animal organs were for, organs with spiritual qualities that would counterract the shadow's chaotic attributes.
All that was left was...fish scales. Her instinct had led her to a water source, and as she knelt before its surface, she cringed, as always, at the sight of herself that reflected back up at her. Winter-white skin, a complexion as perfect as the surface of any pearl. A patrician's nose, a generous mouth the colour of blood in snow. Her hair hung at great length, smooth and black as a raven's wing. She recoiled from the sight of her own beauty, actually felt her stomach turn. She longed for the claws that had mutilated her fair hands, for the sharp teeth that had so distorted the china-doll's face that stared up at her. This fairness was not self-chosen, and she felt the familiar flare of hatred towards the one who had reconstructed her appearance.
Biting delicately into her lower lip, she dipped her hands into the water, watching the cloud of hare blood rise up around them with vague, morbid fascination. She would wait, she would seize the fish, and-
"Hm, very well then. I suppose that's my father's business. Anyways, lead the way Svulkaine. I want to get this over with and want to find out about these visions I've been having..."
Oh no. GODS no. She cringed like the rabbit she had slain and removed her hands from the water, blood running down her arms in faded red rivulets. She scooted backwards (quietly) and folded her arms around her knees, as if making herself smaller would somehow render her invisible. The voices were close. Very close. Too close.
Screw the fish scales. She could wait a day or find something to replace them. She had to get out of the forest, post-fucking-haste.
Securing her satchel, she leapt to her feet, and cringed again when the jars within clanged musically (loudly) against each other. Had he heard it? WOULD he hear it?
Please oh please oh please
