The Seeker allows the faintest of smiles when her Queen relaxes, loosens, once tensed muscles meld into that of water, liquid, a affection moves within her core. She is her sister, not in blood, but she is as her kin, and she feels partial towards the Jester. A marvelous Queen, bathed in wine and shadow, sunlight and alabaster. What commoner would not flock to lay at her hooves? Regal, the Seeker does not notice their differences in size, does not notice the dip in magnitude, for to the Seeker, her Queen is as tall as the snowy mountains that reach frozen claws into the depths of the cerulean ocean above. Though the Seeker's frame is battered, burns with the slightest caress of the wind, she finds that she is exultant in the greatness of her Goddess.
As her query flows through the veins of the air, not so unlike that of the river's that slice and cut through Gaea's back, a smile is graced upon her Queen's maw. A comfortable silence as she awaits her response, and when it comes, she is granted a purpose within the ranks of her people.

Her Queen tells her to find new landscapes, to breathe life into existence. Landscapes with which her people may gather upon to train, learn, battle and teach. Of course, her people, her family, would need to absorb knowledge of new locations, to better understand what may come of them in warfare. To learn how to defend, to retaliate, to conquest, triumph and pillage whom would dare come against them in war, to bring forth ranks, to be known as the Asylum: The fearless, the bold, their name would be a blessing to that which blessed them, and a curse to those whom cursed them. They would be feared, strike trepidation into the very souls of their opponents, and bring reprieve and assurance to those whom were deemed allies.
Three locations, her Queen said, these would be more then enough. She mentions that if she may find more, she would not deny it to her, that it would aid her homeland, and so she will. A pause, the Jester's weight shifts, and when she speaks next, excitement and dread boil within her stomach, clash and wage war against one another, her mind is brought to her Lord, her brother in arms, her shield and sword, the adorned warrior of snow and the ocean and sleet, Arlo. Her allgemeine.
But oh, divines, what is to become of them both?

Her Queen finishes by commanding her to return, to report back, to give her that of a account of what has occurred after she is finished with her task.
A dip of the dome and neck in a graceful arch, despite the anguish the action brings her. The burnt and bloodied skin screams it's distaste at her movements, yet she does not
screech her pain to the heavens, she is resolute, silent, she makes due with the ache. She will bow before her Queen, serve her, no matter the cost upon her own frame, her own mind. Loyalty runs deep within her veins to her royalty as that of a raging river, vanquishes all except the need to prove herself to the Jester.
She raises her dome once more, lyrics whisper into the wind as gentle as birdsong.
"Consider it done, my Queen."

Harks swivel, perk, at the noise of rippling waters, though muffled it is. In the Land of the Phantoms, it is unwise to pass the noises of the unknown off as the sounds of nature, for the ghouls who rest beneath the milky surface of the swamp await the slightest mistake from a fool, to yank into it's depths and swallow whole, to bring another soul into the watery grave of the underworld. Her frame turns, her gaze seeks out that of a ghast, and finds none to be seen.
In the dancing mists she finds a sliver of a black tail before it disappears behind the coverage of nearby, gnarled trees, and she moves yet closer, careful to avoid the death that hides within the waters.
What she finds when she observes the frame through the gnarled branches is not the paranormal, not one of her people, not a familiar face. It is a scent of a brute, she catches the slightest hints of a charred black coat and glint of skies before the figure is concealed once more, and she moves herself in front of her Queen. As quick as a fox, her features have turned from warm affection into cold, harsh anger, ivories bared, harks pressed flat into the dark tendrils of mane at the base of her dome, whilst her dome itself was lowered in a threatening fashion. Her crown was still stained red at the tips with the blood of Merikh, and the aura that radiates off from her bones promises death and torment, disease to those who would attempt to harm the Jester. The Seeker's tail is swishing, her indigo's narrowed to slits, she hisses in the direction of the trespasser into their land.
"Trespasser! Your blood's scent marks you as much as a outsider as much as the sun above shines it's light down upon the Earth. Show yourself, and bow to the Jester Queen, show yourself to the Queen of the Asylum!"
She does not add, lest I skin your frame and use you as a rug, but it is foretold in the tones she uses. She would cook his organs for breakfast if he even dared to insult her Mistress.


Circuta</style>
who's the killer in the crowd -</style>