The cry rings across glassy surfaces, over rotted bodies, and between gnarled dryads that seem to waver and shudder in thirst for it's meaning. It is a simple caw, the chirp of birds with wings and equine faces, the scent of dust and warmth filling alabaster nostrils to the brim with the knowledge of whom cries mercy, mercy, on this eve.
The Throat. The Asylum's allies have come dancing through the swamp, butterflies wings and wrinkled maws, and she herald's the chirps and squawks of avian's with her presence.

For this day will bring victory, destruction, carnage and damnation for those whom have been chosen as the Asylum's prey, conquest and death: The righteous invasions of those whom have squandered in filth and muck, lived among rotting, maggot infested corpses, sweltering heat and bleeding kisses. They have lain back as cattle, weak for the kill of a wolves maw far too long, slothful and fickle as the ocean's tides, and the time has come for them to ascend, rise beyond the tales of mother's in the night, promising nightmares for the youngest childe. It is high time that the Asylum, her people, her kin and blood rise supreme, show the superiority and savagery of their will, brutality and bloodthirstiness, and at the end of this eve, the gladiators shall be painted in red. She will fight, eradicate and execute with the strength of her men at her back if she is given the chance. Indeed, she decides, as the girlish, elegant voice of her Queen echoes among the Spectral landscape, they have waited far, far, far too long.
That does not matter now, for the dawn shall come, glorified and brilliant in shades of orange and red, the light of the rusty moon above screaming the names of her people. The Asylum, the Asylum, the Asylum has won!

And she, the prodigal daughter of Morndis the Revere, daughter of Parvon the Sorceror, and witch-child of Seregnaer will stand in their midst, indigo expression gleeful,
painted in the entrails and wine of her foes, wearing a armor of bone, the disheveled frame of all those whom oppose her lain at her hooves. She shall prove herself to her Queen's, she shall not fall, blunder and flounder beneath the hooves of the many. She shall show them, she shall prove her right to be among their ranks, the Temptress turned snarling hunter. For all the pain the Temptress went through, the homicidal Fox has taught her one thing:
Mercy is for the weak.

And the daughter of Morndis, is not, weak.

She arrives before her Queen, dome raised with high elegance, graceful and suave, bitter and sweet, the apple that has rotted to the core.
Hunger and thirst blemish within indigo depths, gleam and shine as the stars, a breathless smile dancing across her features.
"My apologies, Lady Death, for I am late to the dance."

She searches for her prodigy, the girl of charcoal and soot, blood and wine, the Phantom mistress, before returning her gaze to her Queen. A twinkle of dangerous intent flashes within crazed, passionate pearls, and the woman's voice drops to that of a dark hiss.
"Games? Why, my Queen..." A soft, lunatic chortle escapes her throat, bubbling out from behind milky topped lips. Rabid desire curls and burns within her, a candlelight, growing into that of a all-consuming flame. Ivories gleam behind shielded maw, for they have not gathered the chance to stain red with the consumtion of wine yet.
The poisoned woman hopes to change that, tonight.
"I believe we have already conquered."



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