From refuge and harborage comes forth willowy pillars and aristocratic frame, emancipated in ship and glittering with the starlight of azure hue and malachite tides, crisp and florid in scent, decadent as the brine, hyacinth floating and shivering amidst diseased air as cleansing waves upon drenched shoreline. Each tremulous scream is a dagger, hilt facing from her welcoming grasp, buried within the backbone of her spine, each wailing cry for assistance a murderous tug upon her heart, for she is all too aware that if the screams have begun they are far beyond redemption, beyond the gentle caresses of clammy sinew and aiding steps, and she is the intelligence and the Sigul and she should not be frightened and filled with dread at the softest of crunches out of her sight, should not waver as a leaf upon the wind at the monsters that hunt in the night, for she is one of them— she is a accursed being and they are merely her humble servants (she is built in which to overcome), she is the rushing strength of the tide and they are the merest of grains of the sand (she despairs, for even the brine is aware of the losing battle in which it fights).

And so from salvation she has come, a beacon in which to lead those lost into the golden gates she has come from, willing to spread destruction and carnage and primal desires upon those whom come against her, to stain foul scented claret upon her crown once more if it is what it takes for her to bring the lost lamb far from the grasping arms of the false shepherd, rumors and rumors of tales beckoning lyrical song of children amidst the daemons in which haunt and grasp the lands around her even now, goosebumps formed upon icy flesh with the eradication that scalds once familiar landscapes, the acrid stench of death upon her tongue (far less sweet than that of the Reaper); and it is with dim recognition that these were the lands in which she wished to ravage, to spread anarchy and supremacy upon, to wage endeavors not seen before in the history of her kind, to bring dominion and ascendency in the very veins of her kin— but what the Nightingale sees her promises of ruination, of forfeit and inferiority, extermination done naught by the touch of lusting blood and instead by the hands of Thanatos himself. It is with heartache that she has found not one twinkling eye among the ranks of the dead, not one frame in which to bring away from the coils of damnation and under the sheltering wings of the lord of Earth himself, for surely the sanctuary in which they have gathered in is kept with divine interference (and yet, she queries, if the gods could not stop this catastrophe, what right did they have to believe they themselves could?).

From within the tumbling corridors of her mind the Nightingale wearies from her journeys into damnation, into the darkness that has swallowed whole the frames of her kin, for the screams rest blearily into drooping harks, and as the charcoal woman rounds the top of a rotted hill, and the abruptness of the reality in which she has come to face with trepidation in stride is abundantly clear.
Before her stand a circle of four, a achingly familiar scent upon the roof of her mouth— a onyx son birthed into that of a canines dome, hideous in it's deformities, lengthy fur draping into the budding coat of a childe, fawn like pillars still stretching into comical length, claret stained vermilion and slavering jaws opened to a angle the momentary Queen of the Asylum did not believe was truly possible, a grotesque distortion of equine and canine in a unholy mix, produced by sin, furthered by the dagger that juts from it's brow. There are she daemons, one riddled in it's diseases, lacerated in it's infections, bloodied as the childe with the wolves mouth whom has the stance of that of a feline preying upon that of a fresh mouse— then a giant of statuesque height and fish liked webs upon its dome, milky pearls dripping with foul scented essence down her cheeks. The scent of rotted flesh is overpowering, the urge to scream dancing within the lines of her throat and lungs, ivory and indigo flashing as the whites of violet pearls show — and then there is He.

He is dirtied, tattered, and yet the snow blinding hues of his flesh are not lost upon a reeling memory, speckled with onyx and kissed with cerulean upon his dome. But the last time the woman saw him, he was not fighting for salvation, was not encircled within the snarling jaws of death, he did not radiate the scent of life so sweetly upon her tongue, he did not strike icicles into existence with a beat of his hooves.

He won't die. She can't let Him die. She can't let him die and no, no no, no no no NO— in Hades name get the Hell away from him and NO.
Her mind is churning and her throat feels odd and before she has time to truly think through her actions she is cantering, stumbling, dancing with the force of the wind behind her croup, a screech of animosity and passion winding up from a dry throat.
"NO! NO NO NO, NO! GO AWAY. STOP IT YOU SHALL NOT HAVE HIM— Á pusta! Ego, mibo orch!"

Garbled in tongue and lyrical influence, emotions dancing within her lashes she reaches him, pressing along the side of his icy frame, poisoned dagger lowering into a threatening position towards the diseased, the rotted, seeking annihilation upon those whom would take loved ones from beneath her very bosom, harks pressed flat in aggression against her dome, swaying and dancing for a still victim is easy prey and she'll do her best to carve them a new dome if they dared to come close enough to his beating heart in order to do so. "Flee towards the Heart of our land, Frostheart! Salvation awaits within the Labyrinth below. These beasts cannot be fought! Noro, NORO!"




--
Permission from Neo to say Circuta ends up close enough to Mauja to touch his side.

Á pusta! Ego, mibo orch! (Stop! Be gone, go kiss an orc!)
Noro! (Run!)

Bad post is bad. Trying to rush.