June 9th 2025 (fixed time)

The witch slowly chanted a long incantation in a fluent marriage of Latin and Gaelic. Light slowly filled the air about her, despite the darkness and she was lifted into the air.

There was a soft cracking emitting from the stone floor and lines appeared, written in red and black. Lines that twisted into letters and shapes. The woman continued to chant, her soft voice beginning to change. Long blonde hair fell from a twist at the back of her head and whipped behind her in the fell wind. Streaks of grey appeared to paint themselves into her pale locks and pain contorted her face as she was slowly transformed.

The transformation was slow and gradual. Such it was due to the pain of the alteration.
A small woman, the witch shook like a leaf in a winter gale. Her pale skin paled further until it was unearthly and almost translucent. Her robes fell from her body and thin lines began to carve themselves into her skin. Runes...giving her power and yet taking who she was...

A scream passed her lips as the final rune began one with the flesh on her forearm.
The robes that had fallen smoked until they blew away as ash in the wind. With light she was clothed, slowly black appeared to wrap itself around her, creating a new set of attire for her.
And finally it was finished.

She rose from the floor, where she had crumpled, feeling weak and shaky. The feeling would pass she knew... yet it was still disconcerting.

In the mirror that appeared for her, she saw her new self.

The woman before her was dark and beautiful. The former self appeared but a shadow compared to the radiant beauty she now was. Long blonde tresses shone in greater gold than ever before and her pale flesh gave an unearthly and yet fascinating glow. Her eyes were now a darker green, far deeper than before, as if her eyes now held the stars and all waters. Her attire was of the darkest black, lined with the dark emerald and crimson that depicted her as the Heir of Rosier. So she had become what she had been destined to be. Time and death now held no meaning for her.

Morals and delicate thought were washed from her mind and she felt now unfettered and unburdened. She was wholly herself.

The strength came as she summoned it, and without pain, assistance or cane, she stood before the mirror. The tremors that had long shook her body ceased and she stood a Goddess from Hades before the silver.

The runes were beneath her skin, only seen by her eyes and those whom she allowed to see. Now fully dark, she had no need of the wand laying on the low table. She had become it. Excessum had no longer a mistress...as Excessum was one with her. But for appearance sake, she picked up the wood and slipped it into her robes.

They hugged her slim body and gave proof that a beautiful woman was hidden and yet revealed beneath the silk. The neckline dipped, a hint of pale perfection and no more. Her hair hung behind her, in a cascade of light gold, fiery edged pins arrayed to hold it back from her face.

And there was no fear, no emotion in her eyes. There was but a sense of deepness...and complete and total surrender.
There had been dark lords and ladies before Eglantine Rosier... but never before would there be one who rested within Death's powerful cold arms and yet had wrapped Death about her as a cloak.

A smile appeared on her face and she reached out to take the goblet on the table. Unicorn blood...those who drank it had a half life. Lord Voldemort, her one-time lover, had drunk it and it had not saved him from death in the end. Pouring the liquid into her hand, her lilting laugh rang though the room as the blood turned to ashy dust in her hand, the excess splashing onto the floor to stain the white stone.