Akin to a scavenger, a buzzard at the odor of a promising feast— the Nightingale came; a single wolf among a brimming pack, a howl for the hunt to come wavering upon the breeze and infiltrating her harks, a signal, the assembling of the mad and the deranged, the gleaming illumination of Aristotle's thread amidst the thrall of a Labyrinth. She needn't deliver deductions and estimations for the purpose of the demand, nor presumptions at the timing, for only a day had passed since she had challenged the Jester to a duel and succumbed to bitter defeat (the heady concoction of ire and mortification at her loss still bubbles up inside her throat, sour and galling; although she could not rest assured it wasn't the leftover nausea from the abundance of gore and vital fluids that had surrounded her there on the beach, fluctuating beneath the Siberian grasp of death, the pins and needles that shuddered through her malleable frame, and the endeavor for her existence to endure another eve). The Asylum had not undergone a reunion in far, far too long, ever since the Necromancer had wielded control of the Hidden Falls, and with the tone of the shrill, yet eerie, girlish vocals she was almost certain it was the BloodEmpress, and not the clown-faced woman whom sat upon a throne of deceit. Indeed— unless the particular Jester had undergone a drastic surgery in the form of a pair of new lung's and a fresh gullet, it was not the strident German accent she had grown so accustomed to.

Even as enervation clouded her mind, still worn and wearied from her battle with the Queen, she pressed forth, the bruises across her sinew discoloured into a array of azure and turquoise, lavender and olive, whilst the lacerations and slices were flushed and scabbing, irked with even the most minute gust of wind. She had, however, cleansed herself in the stinging salt of the brine, and the embellished aroma of hyacinth wafted about her once more, instead of the assaulting odor of sweat, and freed from the cruor of the Jester staining her flesh. The Nightingale was not devoid of any of her former dignities, regardless of the lesions; they wouldn't be the Asylum if one of them wasn't injured or blanketed in a good dosing of someone else's life liquor, after all.
As she neared, catching sight of bisque and amber, vermilion and cardinal, the startling and salient cerulean spheres of the freckled woman she had come to adore as a sister (at the sight of her she wrangles back the overbearing dread and self-disgust at her failure in claiming the crown, shoves it behind a padded room, locked firm with a key— the Voice still reprimands her in the contours of her mind that she would not love a wreck, a disappointment) and gives her a meager smile, the liquid mulberry of her spheres dancing across the technicolour hues that wrap about the Empress, where she rests beneath the stained glass of the rotunda's roof, gliding across the clearing to take her place beside her, and ever so benevolently reaching to nuzzle her maw across her spine in acknowledgement, before turning to face where she believed the crowd of her kin would gather. "Yes," firm, but far from unaffectionate. "It is beyond time for us to gather once more."

Beside the bewitching and alluring waltz of hue across the Empress's frame, the silk banners that drape down to shield the woman's frame and the vibrant aureate of her sinew, coupled with the ocean's froth of her spheres, she decides that she feels quite inadequate— and that truly, this time, the sovereign looks more like a Goddess then ever, surrounded by the batches and bundles of prism akin light, whereas she is more of the meek incubus, as if she is lacking her former refinement and elegance by the scars that riddle her hide.
Indeed, she thinks, muling the warmhearted, yet self-lacking image about in her cranium. She was her technicolour Goddess of Anarchy— hers, and she her menial attendant.

And then she waits, straight in posture, impassive and detached, for her kin shall surely arrive soon, and with it, the horde of chaos they leave in their wake.


Apologies for the less then eloquent writing of this post. Half-asleep at the moment!

circuta & eris