Nightfall has brought with it a stillness, a silence that buzzes inside the woman's mind with the all the abruptness of a lightning strike, and all the sound of the whip lash that follows the bright flash of pallid cerulean. It brings with it villains, savages and monsters that flit and fly along the contours of her mind, memories and cackles of laughter.
The woman has a charge.

The thought burns through her as a out of control flame, spurred by the storm inside her own delicate frame, for she has a charge. A daughter of twilight and vermilion blood and cream and she cannot do this.
She fears the possessive urge to dance into the dark of the forests, the call of the Abyss, she is terrified of the possession in which she has been given with so much trust and adoration from her Queen. She fears she shall break the girl, she fears she shall cause curses to befall a far too innocent dome and pain to enter obscure depths of barren obsidian stone. She is terrified of one thing, one thing that she cannot beat, cannot fight, cannot hide or charm.
She is afraid of a charcoal woman with an alabaster moon upon her poisoned skin. She, the Temptress, is afraid of herself.

Silver rises into the burnt skies. She follow's the twisting and churning clouds, the warmth that bakes her thin flesh and sinks into
fine, avian bones.

Her mother was a woman of flame, the Temptress recalls with both fond indifference and utter bitterness that leaves a putrid taste upon her maw. Morndis the Revere had been a candlelight flicker in the darkness of a dead homeland, a soothing voice and tittering tongue and even the King of the Crow's had cherished her with a unholy lust that makes the woman's figurative hackles raise upon feminine withers. The girl's dam had been a blazing fire, cleansed from impurities, consuming all with a gaze of unaltered honey and a song of molasses. She had blazed with a luminescence unlike any of the creation's the Kingdom has spawned, she had blazed for centuries, decades before the childe was borne.
Before she, daughter of Morndis, was born.

The Temptress pauses in her dance across the Earth, for there is a ship of ice and charcoal splotches upon the horizon, with a jutting sword of cerulean
that sprouts forth from it's brow.
For mere moments, the Intelligence of the Asylum stands still, a leaf that sways with the force of the wind, slow and calming.
And then she flows down towards him (It is a masculine scent across the air between them, is it not?), a droplet of scattering
rain upon a pane of clear glass.

The daughter was not like the Mother, she has been born a river, a lake, a endless ocean. Where her mother was warm and comforting, she was distant and freezing, a touch of icy chill to break through clammy flesh and into hot blood. Where her mother scorched, she soothed, and where her mother inspired hope and light, she inspired fear and dread, she was the unknown, the darkest depths of the ocean. She drowned.
She took the life from all that came far too close to the glacier heart within her breast, thrashing and racing as the waves upon the stormy brine.

She had drenched and frozen the flame of even her dam.
She had drowned her own mother. And she, was a damnation to all who stepped into the tides.

The Temptress comes to a standstill next to the frame of snow and ink, gazing down into the depths of the darkness alongside the stranger, and she wonders if he knows
as to the heated core behind a pane of endless glass beyond.
The only noise that comes forth from a icy maw of alabaster and night is breath. It flows forth as water from a dam, and slim sides expand and shrink in tune to her song.

After what seems to be a decade, quiet words escape into the steamy air.
"It is fascinating beneath the surface."
Matching violet splashes finally come up to glance with briefness towards the stranger's dome, a fleeting slight smile upon her exotic features. Long lashes brush against smooth cheeks as they flick back into the depths of the caverns below, and she moves down into the Abyss.
"Accompany me?"
Slippery ground falls against sleek hooves, and it is far too late now to backtrack into the above ground. If the stranger means her harm, he shall find a labyrinth in which to chase and hunt her in.
A dead end.
But she, too, is a killer.

The Temptress fades into the darkness, breaking into a smooth dance once more as she seeks what she has come for.
A auburn glow meets the nightingale's vision.

She rounds the corner..
And she basks in the glory that is the Sanctuary.



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