The dying light of the sun still casts unbearable warmth from the skies, and yet under the
canopy of the gnarled trees, the marsh is luke-warm. it is a thing to be thankful for, the wrath
of the fiery celestial body in the sky having brought with it the full rage of summer. if it were not for the
thick canopy, the watery landscape would be bathing in disgusting waves of warmth.
And with the dying sun, comes the monsters of the night, the ghouls, the hunters.
The huntress.

The seeker moves with grace and ease, despite the aches that grasp her with it's bony embrace.
She looks forward to being healed, forward to ridding herself of the burns and bruises,
forward to ridding herself of her constant reminder that she lost. she has not seen the white general
since she has been injured by the werewolf, has not seen his icy orbs and misty ship.
It is something else to be thankful for, something else to softly murmur humbly to the divines,
for she is not sure what she would do if she met the general so soon after her confused,
muddled thoughts on him in the heat of the battle. And so it is with careful step and wary orbs that she
moves through the dryads, fearful of bumping into the soldier, fearful of having to face
his disappointment in her afterwards.
It is then that the dark witch hear's the words of the insane, bumbling, crazed,
and her soul flutters with recognition that this is not the voice of the soldier, but the voice
of one she has not yet had the pleasure of meeting. He, for the voice is that of a brute,
spills into the air, disturbs her harks with noise. She composes herself with elegance before moving forwards,
listening to his voice in the growing dark of the marsh. He speaks of heroes and villains, sin and grace, betrayal and vengeful wraith.

Her visuals tell her of one with a horn, red weaponry that adorns the mottled forehead. They tell her of one who is draped with a red
robe, one with light orbs that remind her of the morning skies of a crisp winter. It is with joy that she recognizes her brethren, joy that she has run into
one who she can speak insane lyrics with and be greeted alike. And yet she does not yet know this one's damnation, and so she slows, a respectful distance of her fellow family member.
"My brother, do not the villains think of themselves as heroes? Is it just to assume that we, then, are all heroes? Or perhaps we are all villains, with the vain desire to think of ourselves as the graced? Is it right to assume we are the cleansed, when we have committed crime? And is it then right to assume that we are all the toy's in the game that sin has created?" Lyrics spread as honey, philosophical discussion in the midst of the marsh. With her family.
What a strange peace it brings.


CREDITS

tagged: @[Vulture]

He scans her. He scans her with those winter orbs, speaks his philosophical
lyrics with ease. And then the brute locks his depths with hers.
She meets them, does no waiver or move aside from the gentle, almost imperceptible
swaying of her bodice back and forth. He gazes at her with the slightest mistrust, a judging stare,
and it makes her wonder of his thoughts towards her. In the crevices of his mind,
what does the fly think of the black widow? It bemuses her, and the thought's keep
her silent company as she continues to stare at him.
She can appreciate the silence.
It is broken with the weaving of words from her companion, he gives her his title
and she shall give him hers. There is no exchange of bows between them, no royal treatment,
yet she does not expect any. She is not queen, not ruler, she does not
bend the strings of fate for the future generations. And she does not want one, does not seek
to be the one who cuts the strings, or ties them into knots. It is the truest knowledge that the job of those
whom hold the lives of their people in their hands is but the hardest, for the people must merely look
to them for guidance. Once more, she creates her web.
"Circuta, Geier, is my own given title."

He asks her of her home, if she is of the Asylum, and now it is with
certainty that he is part of her family. A small part of her mind relaxes,
though she does not give away the key of her heart yet.
"You are correct in your assumptions. I am a Seeker of the Asylum."
The strange indigo depths allow long lashes to gently slide downwards, a shaded
observation of Geier as she continues her lyrics.
"And what is your rank, Geier? I am but curious. Your views intrigue me."
The song ends then, lyrics fading into the music of the wilderness as she awaits his response.


CREDITS

@[Vulture]

Inquiry and demand for riposte, answer and retort, shine through the ozone layer of blue, sharpened clouds, the Seeker wonders if he believes she is issuing a trial, a challenge with which to rupture and pillage, yet the Seeker offers no such challenge, no such war, she wishes the Geier would place faith in her, belief, for she will break the bones of any who dare oppose her family, dare seek death and all it's sweet caress. There would be no scars across her Queen's frame, no broken castle with which to trample, no blood to stain her home that was not the stains of a traitor, she would place her life in that of her family, place her life and lose it for her Queen's, and she would gladly skin the apparel off of one who threatened to do such terrible things to her sisters, her brothers. Obsessive urges of protection slide along her chest cavity and pool in her heart at the mentions of the mere acts, her crown stands ready to thrust into the bodice or ship of a adversary, watch as the soul of her good work is torn from it's saddle and thrown into the realm of Hades below.

Raised harks perked with interest as she introduces herself to him, a tension vanishes from the air to which she breathes and more relaxation fills her lungs. He speaks, a trainee, a teacher of arts and common warfare, and she simply nods in response, not unkindly, watching as he seems to falter at her expression of interest piqued by his thoughts and speech, actions and views upon the world. He spreads forth different queries in retaliation, to move forward in their shared discussion, he speaks of her deemed name and again, she nods, speech flows from her maw and twists spider's webs in the air. "A poetic nonsense, translated for that of a Vulture, my dear."
The Seeker says with hopefulness that he will further relax, will wipe most if not all of his mistrust of her terminology from his mind, she has come with tidings of good and care, she has not come to rip frame from bone and snap ligaments in her wake.

Another query springs from his jaws, and she studies him with frosted violet pearls, judges him to respond correctly, what interests her about his views? A gentle silence befalls then, curiosity swirls in its depths from both parties, and finally she allows her lyrics to sing a tune again.
"Many wander through this realm with open or closed minds, Geier, short explanations or none at all are given out from their ordinary minds of mundane intelligence. And yet, you.. have created a realm through your discoveries, have you not? You have created your own realm in that which is your mind, not followed along the common rabble as a dog after it's meal. You interest me, as a salmon that attempts to move against the current instead of with it would interest me in it's ability to think for itself."
The morsel drops from her maw as a treat, philosophical meanderings and metaphorical whispers that create one, whole response, it hungers for knowledge, for a explanation of why the salmon swims against the current, she hungers for more of his views, for scientific endeavors, so that she may understand his movements.
Perhaps he will grant her such knowledge, curb her hunger, perhaps he will simply stare and watch. Regardless, she finds it is a most.. intriguing specimen.


CREDITS

@[Vulture]