CIRCUTA

these words are knives and often leave scars
the fear of falling apart,
truth be told i never was yours

As an harlequin, a Jester, she comes before the witch, a intriguing duo, a rabbit to slide beneath the gaping jaws of a wolf, a canine, starved, craving, ripe for the butchery, heinous carnage, and her heart sinks with the knowledge, the damnation, the cruor that will stain her flesh as such ornaments, trophies to dangle from scythe and sword, strewn across slippery filth, mixing with the purities, the water, and when tomorrow rises, when the dawn comes and the Sun turns his face upon Loorien, he shall find all evidence of the deed on this day washed away with the rain, the torrent, the gentle, passionate thrum of the skies. The brilliance of the Necromancer's feline saffron spheres gleams as honey in the hallowed hour of the morn (how enthralling that the shade is known for being the hue of craven cur's and white livered fools), no glimmer, no tremble of apprehension in their depths, and the Machiavellian childe finds bile rising within her throat, stinging, venom, nausea and a twist of her stomach as she comes to a halt, filth staining her apparel, the rough, guttural spread of her voice causing her harks to dance forwards upon her dome, hushed, listening to her fretting, her demanding, her wish. A odd distance, perhaps, grinding her hooves into gear as she ends her speech— has she come to recruit babes, scoundrels, lambs with inquisitive minds and gentle eyes? "No," amiable, chiming, obliging, mixing with the storm, drawing forth the energies that lay dormant within her sinew, veins, inflicted in her cruor, in her mind, in her head. A illusion, entrapped within her fractured cranium, a pearl, ivory wrapping slow and soft around the woman's maw, filling, trapping rainwater as a bowl, time meandering, concentrations halved.

It ebbs, flows, builds up as pressure within her skull, aching, threatening, snarling and pacing as a thralled tiger within its cage, sweat of her efforts mixing with the rain, dripping as cruor upon the damp soil.

The latch clicks.
With a screech, the predator leapt forth, the pearl gleams, diamond, anarchy and eradication, seeking to flay, to choke, to rip the oxygen from the Necromancer's lungs, to taste that which sustains her, toying her life amidst onyx claws, bewitchment, wizardry, granted from the shadows, the umber, the crepuscule longings of her heart, and the lust for demise and dizziness that it leaves in its wake cause her to shiver, muscles contracting across a slim frame (for whilst the Jester is strength, thunder and lightning, thick, heavy clouds, she is wind, fleeting, darting, Akhal lineage clean within her parentage) and a giggle rising within the bile, the acid staining her throat, pitching into a delirious cackle, baneful violet flashing to meet baked Sun, teeth beaming, glinting in splendor. "I've come to retrieve your head."
They had not been the Asylum for their love of tea, darling.

For where melancholy had crept, nausea had risen, where her vehement spheres had blurred and salt water would drip into her maw is now repressed into hysterical, homicidal chortles, where there has once been rain she sees blood, vermilion, cardinal, coral, a metallic stench filling her nostrils, her lungs, copper laden as led upon her tongue, demoniac, cracked, needing another shot of adrenaline, of exhaustion, of dizzying fuel from the witchery, the sane song of her mind reeling into the farthest away corner, shuddering in fright, no longer in control of her own bodily functions, the waning, the yearning, the feast plastered in alabaster and onyx before her, glass hooves and spiraled horn, clown dome, it was rude to deny dinner. (the pallid sclera of her violet spheres sheens).
She dips her dome, scythe tilted towards the more minuscule Lady, setting a trot across the slick earth, feeling the clay slide, not daring to move faster, yet as she had walked towards her former Queen the distance had fallen, and now she approaches with rapid foreshadowing, aiming for the jugular groove, dancing towards the Necromancer's left, yanking her neck upwards to endeavor and aim a snap of jaws on the lobe of her ear, the drums of war becoming the distant cries of thunder.

She sings a merry tune as she works, the rich, wicked, corrupt purr of her voice attempting to reach harks, taunting, mocking, weaving. "I'm going to kill you," the crepuscule horizon darkens, bubbling clouds and lightning. "You're going to slip. And then I'll carve open your stomach like a meal, a lamb fit for the slaughter, for the King's to eat— but I am no King. You'll be alive when I do it, Necromancer. To watch your guts spill out among the dryads, for the wolves." Softening, gentle. "Too bad you won't be alive to see how beautiful it is, Death."