Barbarous hymns, ruthless cries, jagged tongues and gnashing gums— demoniac, ire, merciless peril and blackmail, foreshadowing omens of cruor to be split as wine across fresh dew, sheeps and wolves and anarchy spread and weaved within cobblestone and rainwater, the roar of the falls and the saccharine, luscious emerald grass beneath dainty hooves, slipping, forming, observing as a wraith from the corridors and hallways, a shade, casting umber across the coppice grounds, poisonous violet and impassive lavender, a witch with bowerbird's spheres and a maiden's dome, ornate and dignified as she slithers from the crepuscule and wields the laborious sword of demise within her mind, of interlopers and thieves, sacrilegious actions and blasphemous lipped fillies, children with naught the taste of doom upon their tongues, but mere the craving ideals of hormonal babes. Had they come to pillage, to inflict lacerations, butchering and carnage, annihilation and despair? Had they sought companionship with aching souls, drunken minds, operating under the pretense of a oaf, with no revere for borderlines, drawn within the soil with marked scents, baptized in the odor of copper liquor, flesh and kind? She would drain the oxygen from their lungs— if it was deemed necessary, slay and entrap, bury the bodies within mounds and Labyrinths, and wipe the slate of their meager existence, for she had sworn a oath to guard and shield these lands, and it would rest upon a dying breath that she would abandon it in fright of imbeciles and halfwits, schlemiels with aureate flesh and ivory bone, a revelation that she has seen this girl before— a painted childe with a barbed, irrational tongue, a brute with his tail emerging from his neck. There is Leto, the Lightningborne and the daemon to which she has donned, as well, and she offers the waft of an nicker in greetings, before allowing the lyrics, the poems, the scythes and daggers to slide from her lungs, velvet, inexpressive and reticent. "Silence."

Fluid, effortless, the penetrating, knifelike strictness of her gaze settling upon each in turn, caustic and disapproving, disappointed and resolute, for juveniles and sucklings, unfledged and callow children shall be children, and it is not without a firm lashing of the tongue that they learn. One could tell a bairn to cease thought of touching the pyre, but until it finds a finger scorched, salt water trickling down their cheeks, they will not truly understand, nor learn what it means to be burnt, and why one should not endeavor into the actions. "You," the glass scythed is her first to speak to, glacial tones modulated, warmhearted, but taut. "What has this encroacher committed, what vile— event, that you would seek to flay her? Discipline yourself, my dear. You needn't have the scars of a soldier so soon." And then, to both the tail necked brother and the childe herself, she reaffirms. "Our law's dictate that a interloper, as such, must be escorted back to our borders if they have crossed them. To breach a herdland without invitation is a mighty dishonor, albeit it virtuous conquest in mind or no. What if this young lass had come with marring in mind? You would do well to defend our lands law next time such a event occurs, but you are forgiven for your lack of knowledge. There is no need for ill will between us. We are a family, might I remind you all."

With this, she glides her interest over to the gilded girl, the impassive, serene— yet detached, levelheaded stare never wavering. "Rostislav is kin of ours, indeed. If you would come with us to the borders, I would be pleased to discuss the matter further with you. You are fracturing a sacred decision among our land, even yet, as we stand. I am Circuta, Sleuth of the Falls, ranked beneath our Czarina, Seele the Necromancer." A relinquishing, dismissing glance is given towards the— ah, Artisans, was it not? "You may return to your duties. We will handle this from here."

   Fatigued, the Nightingale allows a melodic, canorous sigh to twist from her alabaster lips, directing a final command to her friend, the Lightningborne. "Hush, Lieutenant. There is nothing for us to concern ourselves over here."