The call of bloodshed has come. It is a call to arms, a cry as loud as the noise of caw of crow's in the Nightingale's harks. It comes upon a bright morn, when the sun is high, the air oppressive, and the woman knows it is not only due to the clouds that litter the sky with ashen hue. The chill bites through her coat, and with elegant strides upon sandy terrain she marches forth, a grim expression boiling beneath murderous, violent pearls.
It is thick with the scent of a deceiver, double-crosser, miscreant, it is thick with the scent of the woman Judas and yet thicker with the bellowing monotone of her jagged, damned vocals. You aren't our Queen.

The lands of the Marsh lay near the woman's treading hooves, cream and charcoal mixing alongside obsidian and violet, cursed, forgotten by the protective voice of the Divine's. Even as the minuscule observation crosses her mind, a prayer is sent forth, beckoning, calling for that which has watched over them time and time again— o'Gods, be with them.
It is a day full of growing exasperation, acrimony, resentment and infuriation, and she wishes to query the skull-faced buffoon why does thou tempt the lion? Does she threaten the Asylum, the allies of the Asylum, and the land's of Helovia with such utter foolishness that she dares anger all that come before her sight? The cretin is a insult to her people, her land, her Kingdom, and she shall take up her Queen's place and fight herself against the half-faced ape that waggles her rump around in the air, slobbers upon sacred ground with her fowl mouth and calls herself a child of Oblivion. The name means as much to the Nightingale as the imbecile herself, and that is naught a single dime's worth amidst the contours of her heart. She has seen half-crazed mutts that intimidate her more then this, terrible, horrid, scientific experiment that has gone so very wrong. The Nightingale is not selfish, not needy by any means, and yet if she could wish upon a star and remove the pitiful thing that wallows in her very sights as she comes to a standstill on invisible sidelines she would do so with glad tidings. And so, as she comes to a halt, bones itching to dance forth and stab the half-witted thing in the side, that her vocals call forth, high-pitched, extending outward to the skies, across gnarled oaks, darkened forests, down the length of the sidelines of the sea.
"Asylum! Come forth, see that which challenges your Queen!"

Her gaze does not waver, does not turn from the wench that has come to harm her friend, her Queen, her Empress, and not awaiting to see if the faces of her kin have arrived, her voice exhales into arctic oxygen once more. Perhaps alliances formed long before shall come at the desperate undertones of her voice, the anger, the hatred that curls beneath her very skin as some infectious disease.
"This.. abomination has come back once more to our doorstep! She has betrayed us, threatened our allies, our own family!" Mockery and scorn waft as smoke within the music from her lungs, contempt, disdain for that which stumbles about with a half-bred mutt alongside her. She hopes the thing will hear her. "She challenges our Queen, she challenges us, she challenges you for right to enter our ranks! Will you let yourselves sit by and idly watch as she attempts to take away that which is, shall be, and always has been, ours? She taunt's us with her foolishness, deems herself the daughter of a God! She believes to be better then us, better than you! She fails in every endeavor, every fight, and now she crawls back to us as if she has the right to stand on a hill and lead us! She shall ruin us if we allow her!"
Brilliant violet turns to gaze now upon the shadows she is certain have come, slinking forth from the very cracks of the Earth itself. "Will you allow yourself to be ordered around by a buffoon whilst she fattens herself on our food, our hard work, and lazes about the depths of a comfortable harbor, deeming herself above you? She has not earned the right to call herself Empress! She is a mongrel, the very dirt beneath your hooves! Her existence is a jest to us!"
Outrage burns within her core, riling, drawing forth, captivating, venomous as the magic that is birthed into the things veins. A breath is taken, short and harsh, ripped forth from the air as talons from a falcon's claws, before she speaks once more.

"Look at her! She comes forth with companion and acidic bite, whereas our Queen fights with neither! She attacks the vermilion because she lacks such buffering! She does not dare attack us upfront, for she knows she shall lose against our might! She is a coward, a gutless cur whom singles out our people, one by one, threatens us with her grotesque face! If our Queen falls on this eve, I shall challenge the fool for her right to live among us in return. I will not stand for a rat, a shriveled hag to live among us, our family! I ask you then, will you allow her to command you from a fancy throne, deem you mortal's whilst she is the nonexistent God's child, shame, embarrass us? I will not STAND for a wriggling child with father issues to call herself our Queen! Will you, brother's, sisters, stand alongside me? Show her once and for all we will not stand for this mockery?" Sweat laces the Nightingale's coat with her exertion, her hardwork, her meticulous carved lyrics. "..Show her, and any whom follow behind her, that we, the Asylum, are, DOMINANT!"

Ire explodes forth from her very soul, flaming, billowing as the wind, and she prays the very force of her emotions shall raise her kin, feed the violence within their souls.
She can do no more. Not yet.