The bidding cry of a Jester ricochets and dances across terracotta earth and fluent tributary— against the enervated frame of a cast away childe, of a cursed woman and a cruor Queen, a bellowing song that whispers the lyrics of induced peril and menace, and the Nightingale heralds the caw with a serene patience, for threat and blackmail are lost upon the tides of the forsaken, the accursed and bedeviled, the ruinous and arduous. She does not find the fretful idealizations of despair among her cardinal veins, between dripping dagger and saccharine induced vocals, she does not find the necessity to feel frightened at the caw of a Jester Queen, for there are much more frightening beings entrapped within a faltering world then the futile and hollow tactics of intimidation from a clown-faced woman upon a throne of purloined ice (the odor of the Basin had reeked off the object as morning dew collects in the grass, a warning sign, a symbol for retaliation, and the glass encased core of her bosom still flutters as insect's wings with anxieties at the idea that they have pinched from their allies in the north).

And so the Nightingale flees with swift hooves across encompassing valleys and forth from rising towers of earth and pristine snow, following in the prints and alongside a claret woman of Thanatos and a Queen to be, for the rumors have escalated that home stretches in the northeast and they have claimed a new kingdom, a realm of the terra Lord and ruler of the soil beneath their stretching pillars,and sleek frames— joyous tides, for Queen and Queen shall sit the throne and rule across earthen realms and coppice alike, the Necromancer and the BloodEmpress to wield iron hammers and stone laden fists across sane and mad alike.

When the gilded Queen and Nightingale arrive, however, she finds a cluster of mortals surrounding a pedestal of rock, mortals in which she does not recognize, mortals whom she weaves through as the morning tide— a frown dancing at delicate lips and ah, she sees the Plaguebearer and a star laden woman and she offers a gentle smile in his direction, though she feels he shall not see twinkling violet pearls nor warm gesture alike, for she does not grow close to his frame enough to touch the slightest of coats. No, the Nightingale aims for the pedestal, to see whom and what sits among the rock encrusted throne, and when the cursed childe of Morndis the Revere does, she stills, flesh growing clammy and glacial as arctic ice.
For there is a Jester, a obsidian and cruor stained flesh in which she so readily expected, and then there is a alabaster and onyx winged brute, angelic wings and molten pearls and she doesn't understand because he is of the Throat to the south and is meant to dwell among his sand blessed relatives and he does not belong here and these strangers do not belong here and the appalling, abhorrent and crushing devastation of what had occurred in this already sin ridden land sparks as wildfire across a beating, flame driven heart, even as denials and excuses run as rampaging beasts within her mind.
  He does not belong among them. He does not belong as her sultan. He does not belong as her Lord.
She will not follow a King in which would bring damnation among her sisters and brothers in the north and lay no waste to the land in which she now deemed home.

They had gained their kingdom.
But it had not been through him, not his people, for he had rejected them in order to dwell along the ranks of his turquoise crowned kindred, had sought to use their resources as a tool to eliminate, to eradicate, to wipe out the Reaper and his GildedTongued sister in a swipe of a cursed blade.
And he. Was not. Her King.

Ire and passion scald her as the tip of a cardinal and scorching dagger— a baleful and violent, poisonous beam directed in the Jester's direction, lost among the crowds, for there is a darkening sense of deception and treachery, smoke rising within her ice laden flesh, and she is as mute as the dead and as still as a grave (despite the swaying to an fro of her frame, a feminine dance, mimicking the twist to and fro of leaves upon a branch). The Nightingale is merciful as the rain, and as prone to violence as a storm, if only the right tap of a dagger is earned to benefit her loathing.
The Nightingale wishes for answers, for knowledge, for the reasons a boy of the sands stands above them as a King in his throne.

And there is rapprochement to be had, righteous reprisal to be found.
Circuta does not forget, does not store memories into the back of her mind and create fresh ideals, fresh bonds, no, she does not forget, and clockwork churns within the contours of a machiavellian mind as the hum of fine tuned machinery.
On the outside, the woman has turned rich and smooth, saccharine and passive, placid as the chilly morning air, and as interally wracked with bitterness as it dons a bite.

Lyrics do not flow forth from her lips, chirp nor song escalating into a chorus, and in the midst of the crowd, situated next to a cardinal draped Queen, she is lost to the world.
There is time.

There is.. plenty.. of time.

"Speech."

Permission given by Frostie to PP Eris a little!

CIRCUTA and ERIS