A onslaught of aggression and incursion, a assault, a besiege from that whom has once been called kin and blood and foe and source of affection have dawdled and grown as weeds upon sickly grounds and accursed lands of which she once deemed home, worlds in which she strived to build upon and tender the flames of benevolence, for they have bled and sweated and ached for the cause of a banner in which to place their title and have been damned to the meager societies of vagabonds and fools, fellowships in which have stabbed crimson stained daggers between sloping withers and wafty flesh, unbelieving guffaws of laughter echoing from swanline lines of a neck and harsh violet pearls, and they have craved and desired and served for far too long in order to curb their adoration of lined trees and sparse brush.
It's time to go see your kin.
Eloquence and dance grinds within each clockwork turn of a bone, each finely tuned switch of a hark, each snowy breath of steam into chilled mornings and calm serenity (The doll knows better than to believe such tales). The Nightingale has passed forth from penumbra and disease, rot and deceased, passed forth from carnage and slipped between Hell's gates to stand among the very spine of a civilization, pallid and resolute; for they shall be hers and she shall be theirs, a alliance mortal men have not stood to see with their very eyes until the very ends of time itself breaks and shreds into thin slices of paper within the tumbling claws of a feline's wraith. We shall bring passion and law, subjugation and weight upon softened backs and lazed hides.
The woman of the Nightingale cannot fret in the darkness; cannot allow soldiers to feast themselves and fatten themselves upon lush grasses and fresh fruits until they burst at the seams, it is not so right to allow her blood and kin ensnare themselves upon fresh meals and the luxury of safety whilst her brethren lay in the drifts of snow, cast to damnation for their deeds, however heinous, for all deserve the right to breathe and flourish (except those covered in leafy green whom have forsaken in the name of united Kingdom's and childish ideals of alliance, no, no, the pack of wolves have scented fresh meat and have taken to it as a canine takes to the scent of spilt blood) and none deserve the curses of the disease, the turning of loves and allies, and she queries into how well her brethren have fared. I plea of you, do not perish into the lands in which you have been bonded to.
It is then with meticulous care that the Nightingale halts at the barest screens of scent, the treading of hooves and the promises of a Kingdom, the (invisible) walls that lead upward into a medieval creation in the Malkavians mind. I have come.
Saccharine lyrics weaved in gentle caresses and high chords upon a angel's voice of a song, echoing, reverberating, a cry of mercy, of acceptance and safeties, of urgencies far beyond mortal tidings, for this is life and death and she all but screeches her cries to the heavens.
"Dwellers of the north! I plead thee to come with a bidder of good will to a refuge located in the bowels of the Earth below. A Sanctuary of equidae— A place of solitude for those whom have seen the darkness and disease of the above realm. I shall lead you to her, kinsman, for I offer but hope of a alliance against foe's and that which would abandon your very people in such macabre times as these."
A slap of the tail, a switch of the hark, a plea to the heavens.
"Come with me, I beg of you, and I shall be that which leads you to salvation!"
She awaits, she curves and burns, and when the first slivers of a frame slip across the horizon, she flees at a even pace, tail held high, hooves pressing into frosted flakes of the ground below.
Permission from a Bunnie to say Circuta saw a glimmer of a certain shiny GildedTongue woman on the horizon!
Circuta has left the thread so to speak as well: The Witch is hopefully leading them into the Sanctuary?? IDEK
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