Look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under it.

She set the stage and waited for the players to arrive, warriors, leaders, brethren in arms, highlighting the oeuvre of her diplomacy, set into shadows or beside her in might. They had reached another realm of challenge, the barbarity of wit, the soul of debate, the discord of foreign affairs, battles of intelligence and shrewdness, tactics of mayhem and bedlam. War could be won, avoided, or coiled again based on word alone; kindled, quelled, incensed, defeated by the anomalies of a request, by the iniquities of a betrayal, by the strain and dissent between two forces. They walked a taut, rigid, rope now, bearing no weight to either side in hopes of avoiding a long plunge into the abyss, becoming torn and frayed themselves, locked in the corridors of the Throat. Faelene, with her faithful companionship, her ability to dabble in arts of melee and discretion, Larkspur, the nettled flower whom had followed her without qualm, and Déodat, gruff soldier layered into the shade, melting into the canvas, protective, resolute. Without their presence folded into the dust, she would have walked into her own oubliette, and because she feared for them, frightened by the perils of another world, another earth in which her smile held little power, she tread lightly, fed no hostilities into the smothering tension.

Ever genial, ever courteous, ever stoked in humility and modesty, Lena bowed her regal head at the General’s arrival, felt the apprehension rise in her barrel, traced the potential calamity, of her, their, destruction in her grand mind. Tasting control and composure again, she lifted her cranium to render the soft gaze of her brown eyes, allowed the silken smile to bloom across her features once more. He’d been fair and calm before when she drew herself into this world for the Doctor, but she could see the suspense, the anticipation, had immersed itself into this earth again. He placed his frame between prisoner and hope, and even before he bestowed words upon their small party, she knew this would not be easy as prior occurrences. Kingdoms had changed, dedications altered, debts hardened, sentiments beaten and broken, and so she would shower her emblem in grace, perform in finery, in elegance, in finesse and nobility, to save and liberate. The leader showed quickly thereafter, doused and soaked in the ardor of power and prestige – she received the same token as Azzuen, a deeper dip of the cranium to show respect, diligence, and honor. Even at her gruff segment of words clattering to Déodat, Lena dared not turn around, and silently hoped that the stag could cease whatever wrong he had already committed within the barbs of silence.

Instead, she postured the formalities, poised dignity, prosed harpsichord rapture to drown the anarchy in decorum, beneficence and compassion. Harmony, a gifted, blessed aria, echoed from her mouth, and she began her own semblance of art, of influence, sketching the ambassador prestige. “Sultana Kri, General Ázzuen.” A pause, a sweep over their faces, a genial grin fastened to her countenance to dissolve the wariness bolstering along the scene. Collected, serene, tranquil, and effervescent in the veils of danger. “Twice before you have taken one of our brethren – Mauja’s daughter and our doctor – without any prior provocation. You received no vengeance from us.” The memory served her well, the first time she had met Kri, amongst the mass of vexed, writhing, wrathful souls, studying the world she was ultimately submerged within. “We stand before you again in the same measure. We hold none of your herd hostage, yet, you snatch two of ours, one of whom has done no wrong.” She spoke truth, not the guiles or wiles of a fox, but the delicacy of a nymph, a seraph, a sylph dipped in fairy opulence. The Basin contained not a single Throat citizen, and while she couldn’t speak for Elizabeth’s deeds, she knew very well that Aurelius, staunch and stalwart, had not earned this ire, this despair, these wicked, clattering doldrums of captivity. Her eyes searched theirs once more, pouring the morality of her aspirations into her gaze, into her heart, into her soul. “Do you long for this constant friction between our herds?” For she didn’t, held no wish or claim to continue the onslaught of terror, horror, plucking innocents and infidels from their home. Perhaps this was a moment she could extend an olive branch, taper the ruffian threads between two mighty forces.