The sand weaver asks where he is, and before she can respond..
A maiden of charcoal and coal, earth and damp, scattered snow brushed upon her as the strokes upon a artist's canvas. She was a pretty little thing, with leonine tail and a well-shaped frame, and yet the dryad sang lyrics of the land of the crowned, sang lyrics to oppose her own offering of a bestowed land and welcoming grips of the dead. The dark maw spoke of it's own gift, and the beating muscle inside her chest beat a tune of frustration and swelling anger, of a primal urge to defeat those who dare attempt to snatch the sand weaver from her grasps. The sand weaver was hers, her prey, she had found him before this woman, she had gripped the right to take him within starving fangs and turn him loose after the hunt of the fox. She could see it now, the laughter ringing through the trees and the howls of the canine she had created as it locked drooling maw around the fox's delicate frame, ripped, tore, demolished before her very visuals. She would appraise him then with a treat, watch with pure, unrifled pleasure as her apprentice grew into the wolf that is both beautiful, and strong.

She is interrupted once more, a frame of rusted metal and white froth, of green tinted maw and crazed pearls. A rough voice, she recognizes this one, recognizes him as the plaguebearer she has named. One of her people, her flock, she blesses him with a slightly more gentle gaze. He has been judged with harsh intent, and despite her own first impressions of him, she will treat him as one of the flock as well. Are they not all cursed? Are they not all damned with the insane musings of the mad? The cries of the wolves are night, searching for injured elk? A demon haunts each of them, and so she greets him with a expression of welcome. She hopes the plaguebearer recognizes the action as one of peace, she is aware they have not met on the most friendly of terms, a apology, perhaps? It is clouded, the briefest exchange between the two of them, the merest of moments. And then it is washed away, as the sea to the sands beneath, washing the sins of the rock and earth away into the tide of it's expanse.
He speaks though, now, as her gaze turns back to the sand weaver, the recruit, he speaks of the position of general, and she allows a flick of one of her harks in his direction. Her tone displays nothing, nor does her expression anymore, and yet she is not rude when she sings. She merely sings, as the waves crash in the midst of a storm, she follows the direction of the crackles of lightning and the sound of a slashing whip afterwards. She is much like the storms, the winds, she is born of it's body and given it's strength, she is it's follower, it's child. She is like the sea. The temptress brings forth those with the songs of a siren, drags them down into the depths, she watches them struggle to breathe and cry and attempt to force themselves to the surface.
She caresses them with the force of the undertow as they begin to listen, they hear her, they hear her, and the song, the gentle touch of a kiss beckons them to eternal sleep.
A dying flame. "A fine warrior you are, plaguebearer, your strength is great. Yet still, my cranium tells me that yet others hold such a place among our flock."
The tug of her whispers are directed towards him, yet her divine attention is placed upon the sand weaver, with the swirl of a tornado twisting amidst her violet pearls. There is no sense in lying in front of the - what must be - banished Lord, for it will be found out soon enough, and he will race away as a startled pup once he enters the land of the dead.

The sand weaver creates shapes and form from the ground beneath him, flow as the rivers that cut across the landscape as wounds that flow with life-giving ichor across the silent face of Gaea.
Lyrics spread once more, attempt to wrap webs around the weaver and drag him beneath the surface, soft, the thumps of rain against a glass canvas.
"You have come to the Threshold of the land of Helovia, crafted by the divines above. All those who wander upon this place are met here, in this terrain."
A soft hum of breath escapes her nostrils as she pauses, her neck cranes carefully with the structure of a wave across the top of a boiling ocean.
"I will not lie to you. We all come forth with the options of a home, sand weaver, a recruit to our own families. To grow our ranks, swell them with new blood. If I may assist you in any other way.."
A sultry dip of her lashes now, a seductive dip of tone - "I am Circuta, I am given the crown of seeker in the realm of the phantoms. And what title bestows you, my dear sand weaver?"