Offense and affront are spat into the warmth of the morning air with the temptations of a fight in it's wake, and indigo's laze once more to the charcoal and earth girl, even as the Weaver of the Sands speaks to them both, even as the Weaver of the Sands tells them to stop, and in response, the Temptress does not respond to the Girl of the Basin. But the Seeker's gaze flits with bitter amusement in the tidings of a admission and a attack, and she thinks her unspoken lyrics in mockery and sadistic muse. And you are better, are you?
The Asylum threatens those that they prey upon with tooth and claw, indeed, and the Basin threatens those birthed into the world with no stick to sprout from their foreheads, with wings of avians in the stead of those with smoothed backs and lacks of new appendages. The woman herself is given with occasion to racism, but she has seen the brute force of the equines, the delicate wisps of the winged, and the good of the horned. The differences are subtle, and lines erase themselves from her conscious as time meanders on, for what right does the Seeker have to curse the works the divines have crafted, what right does the Seeker have to insult her equals, her betters, and those whom she holds dear? Is it so much better, then, doll, to rip wings from flesh then threaten one's life with acidic poison? The logic does not meet her brain, and she would laugh at the childe's incompetence, if she did not hold herself with such grace. We are not so different, you, and I.

Lyrics are called forth from the Weaver again, a response to the murmurs and mixing of poets writings and she allows a gentle smile to brush her maw
as she returns attentions to him. A playful tinge is spoken in retaliation, are you one of that who wishes to muddy your coat and bleed unto the same sands you call into existence? "Do you want to be a warrior to me, Weaver?"
He speaks once more, yet tensions seem to rise in his tones, the affection of a nickname rolls into her title, and the harshness in which it is
spoken is allowed the slightest of flinching in her soul. It shows none on her face, yet a kind tone and softening of gaze is given in response. I didn't mean it that way. You know that.
"No. My intention's are only meant that we accept all, in kindness, and aid them. A attribute of our people. I have no reason to apply the attribute to you, and nor does it apply to all of our family."
Her song soothes nerves and calms tensions, and she allows the honey of her words to drip with sweet attire, I apologize.

Fumes and tantrums are spat once more into the air, the trills of noisy birds in her eardrums, and once more her attentions are dragged with force unto the child, as she speaks of webs and snares, and she hums in response. How dare you speak with pretense to know my intent?
The Seeker weaves webs with all, not the Weaver of the Sands alone. Her webs are what make her diplomatic, and do not fill her with harsh grates that turn away the potentials of allies, of recruits, of friends. They hide the glass beneath, the heart encased in cold metal, and her webs are given as a protection of both, her, and them, to hide the ice that creeps in her veins, to keep the ice from freezing all of them, to keep it from tainting the souls of the pure and innocent.
"Do you speak for him?" The lyrics are breathed still, and calm, but the childe continues on and she stares with polite indifference to the girl.
As she gazes upon the young one, she speaks to the Weaver, soft and thoughtful. "Know that the other lands are given to deities as well. The Throat to the God of the Sun. The Edge to the Goddess of the Moon. The Foothills to the God of the Earth." If your opinions are so swayed.

And still, the words are spat forth from the little girls lips, the Seeker is amazed that spittle is not flying from her maw and dribbling down her chin even now. Perhaps you belong in the Asylum as well, doll. But the lyrics, if the Seeker can call them lyrics that spin from her stretch the string thin and wide, and the band that holds the string together is strained with its hold. The doll has insulted the Seeker, her brother who stands near her, and her vermilion Queen.
Righteous anger flashes in her violet expressions, and does the Seeker not have a right to be? It is sent upon downy feather wings and curls into a fist around her heart, pumps into her veins with sluggish movements and scalds her with heat. Lyrics spin from her maw, and they are even softer, void of emotion, intent and insult, and the lack of it that is present in her tone is perhaps the most terrifying thing the Seeker has done in this meeting of chances. The softness of how she speaks, the lack of throwing herself with fangs at the ready at the little childe, it speaks with red alerts danger, danger, for is it not the patient that strike with the most force? The softest of speakers that turn into the hardest of foes? When the patience runs out, what but blood thirst is left? And yet, perhaps the Weaver shall appreciate her control, the lack of insult, the defense of her people and not of herself. For she is scum, she is twisted and broken and damned and she understands this. She is. But cursed is he who insults her loves, her siblings, I would defend you as well, Weaver, if you stood alongside my kin.
"Are you quite so keen to insulting my kin, my Queen? Pe-channas." The end of her lyrics is spoken in a ancient tongue, light and wispy, one she was brought up with, and one she is familiar with in all terms and ways. Idiot.
So the Seeker has insulted the girl, with ancient tongue and hidden meanings, for all the venom in her voice she might have been saying doll, for there is a complete and utter lack of it, and she leaves no hints to what the foreign tongue means. Violets flick back to the Seeker, calm, relaxed, the Temptress reflects the oceans with ease. Somewhere between where the girl has insulted her kin she has moved towards Plaguebearer, a cat-like move that speaks if she had the ability to stretch her spine into a defensive, angry curl, she would have it arched. The Plaguebearer can no doubt defend himself, but for the divines sake the girl has went too far insulting him in her presence.

It is then that her vermilion Lady emerges forth from the shadows, her frosted chuckle leaving a second of a warning as her violets flash to the shrubbery, elegance and ease roll from her frame as water from a avians feathers and a delighted smile meets her maw as she sees the ice cold depths of her mistresses cerulean pearls.
A mockery of a mouse is spoken from her lyrics, and it seems her Queen shall do the work of all the insults that she has not spit towards the girl. She speaks of her, and a modest dip of the head is given in response, though she knows her Queen shall most likely not see it, for her attentions are given to the mouse.
A mouse more like a rat. If only the Seeker knew how close her Queen and her's thoughts were in that moment, it might have intrigued her.

A girlish giggle escapes her in song, far too giddy to be placed with such a cold undertone, and whereas the Temptress finds it with affection, she is aware those who do not know her Queen well would find it..
Eerie, spine-chilling, and uncanny.

Ah, yes, her Lady speaks of death and its perks and lows. Violets flash to the girl once more, a ice forming within her gaze to match the Goddesses. The specimen had a gorgeous coat.. It would look quite well on her apparel, draped across her shoulders, to fall down to her hooves. She could place those pretty little emeralds into a jar, and allow them to wither as she would the acidic charcoal woman who had escaped the Asylum's grasps. But would it be more amusing to cut sinew from bone in precise, light amounts? To allow blood to clot and stink her charcoal and earth apparel, to rip mane from its placings and snap ligaments in half, it would be far more amusing to cut the horn from her brow and watch her suffer in her unrighteousness. It was long, and delicate, and the Seeker observes this with a dark expression mulling around in her pearls. Violets flick to her Queen, then back to the girls horn. Would her Lady catch the hint? Did she understand what the Seeker wished to do? They could hunt her later, bring along the bloodthirsty equine with a felines companion and a taste for flesh. They could torture her in ways the little girl could not imagine, leave scars unto her heart and soul to stay with her forever. The glance would likely make little sense to the Weaver and the Daughter of the Basin, but to her Queen, and perhaps the Plaguebearer, it's meaning would break through to. Torture, torture, torture, it sings with glee.

The Seeker almost misses the words spoken to the Weaver, but she does not miss the step closer to her frame. Attention given wholly to her Queen, she allows the tiniest of bows, rising as the Goddess moves forward, the gap between the two closing as friendship kindles in the faintest brush of a cheek. "Hiril vuin." She acknowledges her, beloved Lady.
"A sand weaver, my Queen." He has not given us his name, the murmur of her thoughts seems to hint into her voice. He weaves magic of the sands.
Interest piques as a liquid gaze turns to him once more; does the Weaver even know his name?
A crumb of knowledge sews itself into her mind and she wonders at the whisper: Amnesia?


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