Mishap and blunder aspired as one— ominous omens, bunched, melded and fused in the form of ill-fated moves, dainty, filth blanketed hooves having swooshed past their dedicated victim by mere milliseconds, impaling naught but the wind, the laden humid air, albeit she had not had much time to notice, to formulate memories and faults, for she had been turned blind to the Queen, only recognizing her failures in the form of a dim sign flashing warnings within her cranium, the slow, slithering voice of a incubus; you missed, the harsh baritone of the Jester's voice as thunder within her harks, even as she had spluttered, sobbed and heaved, teeth clattering haplessly, shut with a click.

Yet that is then, and this is now, as her hooves slide berserk and hysterically within the damp soil, a clap of thunder rolling thick across the hills, she sees the dual anchors reaching towards her, seeking laceration, bruises, crushed bone and aching sinew, and she is too late to do anything but dig herself firm into the malleable grounds and squeal in a mix of resentment and anguish as the blows smack against her side, resonating through her spindly, doe like frame with shocking force, leaving prints upon her apparel, the dirty water curving down her belly and dripping down below as the storm continues to drench the world around them. The white's of her eyes gleam once more as she turns to face the Jester, well aware that the marks will leave purplish bruises, reminiscent of the skies. Lightning reflects the fright in her irises— with all the satire, the seductions, the decay, she is a mere childe cast from her mother's milk, young and frail within the boundaries of an adult's donned armour, damned and forsaken at a age where she should have frolicked alongside other maidens and came prancing back with flowers in her long, windswept tresses. And perhaps this is the reason she has come to do battle, to attempt and rip skeleton from muscle. When she had come to these lands, she'd been labeled a foe in all but words of the BloodEmpress— always favored alongside the Necromancer. And yet as time had meandered on, she had been praised, coddled, had been enwrapt within benign, ardent murmurs and meticulous brushes, defending, jealous by the ginger, freckled Lady.
The Nightingale had not had such meaningless humor when she was but a mere babe— and oh, humor, indeed, for she knew none of it could ever bring up to be legitimate, a wolf did not lather a lamb in kisses but for the knowledge of how it shall taste as dinner— but she could not help the cravings, the desires.

Perhaps that is why she risks her soul as this, but for a few, mere, fragile, and yet hushing, words.
It is at this moment that something strange occurs. If she had known how close she had come to having the very soul she had just reflected upon ripped from her, she would have thanked the gods that they had been merciful enough to spare her from the loss. But as it is, she does not, and so reacts with a chorus of bemusement and trepidation as the jeweled, onyx amulet with a storm in its midst begins to flare, shivering against her bosom, cracks forming within its scalding, blistering surface, and with a screech she wheels backwards from the Jester, attempting to free herself from the smoldering gem. Accusation within her vocals, she raises her spheres to gaze upon the Queen— "What have you DONE to me?!"
There is no time for blame, however, for in the next second her realm flashes as if lightning has struck a nearby oak, and the amulet crumbles into naught but dust, ash, channeling the unseeable wraiths back from her, shielding, protecting, casting the energies back unto that whom has sent them forth to her. She did not know this, however, and so embittered, vexed she dances forth to meet her Queen in warfare, darting with lithe attire to the right, twirling, avoiding the aim to her withers and yet unable to avoid the scythe of a horn down her side, feeling the sting as the tip of the crown slides across her apparel, and the bubbling cruor in its wake. When her Queen moves to slam her frame against her own, however, she snarls, a canine grin spreading jagged across her maw, the remaining flecks of salty tears washed away with the storm. "Fool," she spits, twisting her neck towards the side of her oncoming frame, bowing her sword low and throwing her dome forwards, glinting, slick, having tasted the Queen's cruor once before on this eve.

It would learn to taste it again before the day was done.