Quite contradictory to the established and profoundly-cliched norm of the supernatural populace, the descent into the mirk of the nighttime hours did not arouse within the wayward Russian Duchess a requirement for the implementation of insidious mischief. Barren was her tongue of the thirst for purposelessly spilled blood, bereft was she of the yearning to pursue the night's dancing shadows like some rabid beast. In truth she had never existed amongst the ranks of the reckless, ravenous pursuers; much akin to Alexander, Anastasia slid effortlessly into the guise of the Hunter when it suited her and exuviated the hollow carapace of the predator when it did not.

No, the night did not curl its wanton and beckoning finger towards her as it did so many others; in fact, it pilfered from her far more than was ever to be gained from even the most leisurely foray beyond its choking curtain of darkness. And yet, in a cloying paradox, it was this that had lured the fallen sovereign out into the dark ether which lay sprawled before her as some salaciously listless minefield. It was a habitual outing wrought of necessity and the nearly-cellular yearning to conquer one's own (and nearly only) weakness; an outing that Anastasia demanded of herself no matter the city, the country, within which she found herself.

Even swathed in the tragically temporary warmth of the mortal coil Anastasia had known the affliction that was her night-blindness, an ailment that had proven far too inexorable for even the cleansing wash of immortality to scour. She had known a considerable amount of disappointment, even ire, at the realization. Disappointment that had dissolved, as a great many things had, into determination. She was, after all, her father's daughter; a conqueror by birthright. And so does she trudge forth into the ample darkness of the nearly-abandoned park, but a few gleaming halos of dust-choked light punctuating the blanket of murk. It is all she sees for a time, these pitiful orbs suspended within the darkness that surrounds her; the senses that remain rushing to the aide of the sight that fails her as they always had been wont to do.

It is this otherworldly compensation that brings about the events that follow, an innocent beginning to the tumult that promises something of a far grander scale. A flicker of... something in a universe gone dark, a touch of color to accent a world of shadows and dust. Typical though it might have seemed, it brings Anastasia to an unceremonious halt upon her admittedly random trajectory about the recreational lawn. Tentatively does the Russian adjust her course, journeying in false leisure in the direction of the suspect aura. Confidently does she penetrate the ring of light that saturates the swingset and the surrounding earth, though her eyes are for naught else but the young girl swooping to and fro within the seat's plastic craddle. The Duchess would have known that dazzling mane of blonde curls anywhere, though admittedly she had only laid eyes upon them once before. Once, a very long time ago. Anastasia freezes then, every lean cord of sinew gone rigid, every ounce of blood glacial with the reappearance of the necklace about the blonde imp's slender neck. The flicker. She would have known that anywhere as well, for it had existed in her mind, in her dreams (both waking and not), for decades. It was, as it always had been, the purpose of her travels, the sole reason she had spent the majority of her immortal life scouring the earth.

For a time she can do naught but look on, for in this moment she too is weightless.

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia