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No light, no light
It is as if the Lady of the Basin's mention of a Nightingale takes wing and plasters paint upon a canvas of stars, for from the northeast, from the catacombs of the inner workings of a insidious race of the mad and a trickling river of the sane comes the Nightingale with scars addling her flesh and aches still prominent within her mind; the shards, memories of cruor and foul scented foes sending tremors along the contours of her mind— she is shielded within the ideals that she is safe, guarded from the realm outside, and yet the fret and worry that lines her dome and furrows her brow remains, for she knows that they seek her with the tenacious strength of a bloodhound, and it is only time and riddled speech that shall occupy the hours betwixt, they shall come, and she may not be on guard, may not be within the walls of her kingdom— may not be secluded within the said prowess of her kin.
(A crow only caws for so long before it takes flight, feathers glinting in the sunlight, and a wolf only awaits for its meal so long before it lunges, maw japing and teeth gleaming, shimmering, stained with the cruor of past deeds and hunts alike).
Indeed, the woman with a breastplate of the universe within her spheres does not know if she even trusts a turned croup to the men within her own lands, her own civilization in which she is charged to wield spindly lies and sweet nothings for, to protect brother from thief and purloining fools, but if the crepuscular thoughts show upon her weary maw and baleful violet depths it is washed away as sand from the beach with the incoming tide, as soon as she catches sight of the gathered upon the borders, crowns held firm in the midst of springtide light, and the bubbling anticipations and overwhelming elation and delight come with it, for she recognizes a dual coupling in the warm hue— bay and aureate, one known as a GildedBlade to whom she is pleased to see alive, and one to whom's name she recalls well, within caverns labeled with the title of Sanctuary and a Labyrinth of the buried alive. Lena.
There are those of her homeland she recognizes as well, as her dainty cream hooves take her across the slope at a increasing pace, elegant, jubilance cawing through a cry of greeting as she approaches, mirth, a furor chiming up alongside the beat of a glass encased heart, cracked, beaten, alive, there is the obsidian and alabaster of the golden Caliph, the lace cheeked dome of the Jester, the luminous hue and sanguine tresses of the BloodEmpress— she slows to a halt beside the vermilion haired woman, her Queen, thrilled and irenic, a lull among the stress that had made itself prominent over the last few days.
Eons.
And so with a gentle dip of the dome and ever so meticulous bow, she rises to face them, a trio, one to whom she does not know, terracotta and cerulean— and the warmth that tenderly dances among her vibrant spheres extends towards them, intending to enwrap, to calm, to soothe, they are welcomed in these lands and she hums a sigh, delicate vocals making themselves known among their northern kin. "My apologies. It seems I have come late— it is relieving to see you in good health, GildedBlade. And you, as well, temptress of light." She sways her dome ever so slightly towards Lena, then allows a proper introduction to fall from her lips, a song, a chorus, a repeated title with the tone of the patter of rain upon glass. "I fret I have not had much time for introductions. I am Circuta, Sleuth of the Hidden Falls, beneath the Czarina Jester. I am.. beyond elated to see all of you."
And then she falls still, quiet, reverence and hush, pricking harks eager to grasp at the strings of sentences she is sure are to come.
(She prays, too, allowing her thoughts to swarm to the God of the Sun— divine, Lord, the one to which she serves out of the quadruple gods. Sire of light, let them not squabble, but allow us to gain a friendship on this eve instead; Amen).
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[O] verdant fields, laden with frost; [herd leaders]
