A glance, a glimpse, a rake of cerulean across her bodice as the wisps of lyrics fade along her tongue, hunger and curiosity mix with primal desires and dancing flames that erupt as greek fire within the contours of the bloodied, red, beating muscle inside her center. She only recognizes the disgusted, exasperated expression of distaste in the Plaguebearer's dark orbs, obsidian depths that gleam and shine with revulsion of her tactics, yet her instincts bless her with assurance and more webs to weave, and the black widow weaves them well, wraps the Sand Weavers frame in them, pulls on the threads with precise work and immaculate taste and like the kiss of death she tempts, is temptation in liquid form, solidified into one individual framework, her bodice, she was the temptress, and she would not be outdone by the fretful flirtations of a childe. Not of the Basin, not of the Foothills, not of the Throat nor the Edge, she was superior in right and grace and she would come forth victorious against the face of disaster, letdown, catastrophe.
If the Seeker of the Asylum notices the slightest of pauses, in which the Weaver of the Sands speaks not his name and heritage she does not speak it - she does, by the way, she's not dumbstruck like the little crowned childe.

She remains, still, statuesque, refined, the rhythmic breathing of her lungs as they take in oxygen, one, two, three, one, two, three, her sides expand and slow down as she inhales and exhales, the laps of the waves against the skin of the sands. The Plaguebearer breathes his own into the air, and she is eternally grateful his words are not too harsh, as the deep rumble slides along the air as the thunderclaps in the desert.
A exclamation of realization escapes the Weaver of the Sands and she feels a little saddened as the loss of the gentle thrum of the sands movements is gone from her, taken from her as if it had never been, and it is then that she allows her eyelids to brush upwards, imploring, beseeching the Weaver to return the gift of the melodic song back, to return it, for the Temptress, at least, for her. She speaks naught.
The girl is next to proclaim her arts forwards. A meek echo, the hawk's orbs allow a glimpse upon her, watch as realization of her homeland sinks into the marrow of her bones, bemusement slides through her veins as icy flames, ivories exposed to catch flies and whites of emeralds gleaming for the world to see. She speaks the title of the red haired maiden, her Queen, and a protective, obsessive urge churns her soul into rigid formation, does she mean to insult her Queen?
As the girl speaks once more, attentions given to the Weaver, she builds up her home with immaculate words and fine images, and when emerald meets indigo once more, they clash, with a warning edged deep within the depths of her violet pearls. Dare you insult my family, childe?
A answer is given in response to the girl, a lesson, a teaching, if you are to speak ill of another's loves then you are to expect ill lyrics to be returned, coated in sugar and sweetness, danger hums as an engine's voice beneath her every murmur. "And you hail from the Basin of Aurora's, a land of harsh ice and snow. The same Basin that attacked the Throat and Edge in desire, though you seem to have a exquisite home to deem your own, no?"
Are your family so greed-filled and vain, they press for more, when the divines have granted them a land of their own? The pools glint, speak no more, and I shall speak no more. A despise is given to respond with veiled insults to the crowned from the Seeker. It is not to be aided, for the childe does not shut up, does not seem to learn. Her General, her's, had fought in that war.

The Seeker returns her attentions to the Weaver of the Sands, lathers her devotions to him, enraptured once more.
He speaks, lyrics float through the deep forest and come to rest as feathers across her apparel, harks relaxed, tail swishing with the slightest of breezes.
Balletic, cat-like, the Seeker moves forward with smooth movements and once more lowered lashes, and when her frame draws close to his ship she loops round the Weaver with elegant pause near his left, her maw near his harks, scalding breath and soft murmurs as delicate as the petals of flowers. Hyacinth wafts from her apparel, a sweet, sharp incense, she takes meticulous care of herself - but she does not touch him, she leaves the choice up to the Weaver.
"The sands which you weave are tranquil, serene. They form shapes unlike that of many, unique, and blessed, you are. Yet, your speech is of elegance, composed, diplomatic.."
The tones of her lyrics drip once more into sultry whispers - "A psychologist, a artisan, and yet you would serve well alongside me, as a visionary, Weaver. The choice would be yours to make.."

A faint brush, then, the smallest of touches as she moves back to face him, her tones return to normality - a carnal flame catches within her indigo expressions.
"My people are brother's, sister's, led by the Jester Queen, Seele - and the Vermilion Queen, Eris. Allies of the Dragon's Throat in the southern peninsula, and the World's Edge in the northeast. We offer serenity, we care for those who may not be accepted anywhere else, and breathe new life into their veins. We offer stability, knowledge, tasks and quests, we offer to teach those in need. A place to rest your dome, food, those who shall care for you as you care for them, and above all, the protection of our entire armed forces. If you were in need of aid, we would assist, with the might of our Queen's and allies at our back."
A gentle hum escapes her throat, as she allows him pause to digest the offer she has placed on the table.

"You are correct, of course, Weaver, we are not the only Kingdom's that reside in the land. The Dragon's Throat, as mentioned, is to the southern peninsula. They are our allies, yet the lands they live in are scalding to the touch. The World's Edge, to the northwest, is a land of mist's and drakes, Mirage the DragonHeart is the Queen of the Landscape, whom I have met in the mists myself. They are our allies, as well. The Windtossed Foothills, to the northeast, a realm of Earth. The Daughter of the Basin has explained her land to you." Violet's soften as she relaxes her stance further - "Outcast bands are frequent as well."

She's at ease. She waits.
She's done her poison. It's time to see if it works.


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