When you wander into the realm of Hades, you are certain to alert the furies. And in this case, the foal's voice carries upon the wind and into the siren's harks
with just as much promise as the scent of a injured elk to a canine's starving maw.
She moves as ink across paper, dark expression hidden in the locks of shadow that surround her and bathe her
in the soon to be milky glow of the moon. in the dying rays of the sun insects lazily buzz about, the hums of their wings beating in unison
entering her harks as the beat of many drums. she stalks, moves, dances among the edges of the glassy liquid that promises death if she dare
touch its poisonous surface. the swollen, infested frames of equines and mammals too stupid or too unlucky to heed it's warnings float upon it's surface.
small, white worms wriggle across the torn flesh, and a a turn of the lip downwards signals the lady of the shadow's distaste of her surroundings.

But the sound calls again like the morning caws of a crow, and she flashes her harks forwards to better hear the little dear's voice. Yet, she does not find the dying body of a fool, but the foolish frame of a very alive childe. The flaming coat and mismatched orbs speak to her of a familiar face, birthed in the midst of the war of the drakes. A familiar face, the face of the child Apollo, the face of the fire child. The face of that born from a bird's brain and a dancer's elegant song. The young one whose life was cursed from birth, yet blessed enough by the divines to live past the dangers it's new world faced.
She watches him from the shadows, he seems to have been speaking to a hare, for it's prints remain in the muddied ground near the marshes edge. A mismatched gaze cranes around to observe the gnarled dryads, and it is only then that she moves forward, her silky voice spinning webs into the dying air.
"Little Apollo, you have wandered far from the safety of your mother's frame and your father's palace, do you know know that is is dangerous for a childe of Zeus to enter the realm of Hades?"
The words are spun with a sweet front and a bitter aftertaste, the child is in danger, for this world is not one he wishes to enter. This is not a realm he wants to see, he should not be in the midst of the Asylum's walls, he should not be so close to the bony grip of Death.
Indigo pearls gaze upon him in silence then, she does not quite understand the minds of children, does not quite understand how she should act
or what she should say. Nevertheless, the shadow woman stands firm, sleek bodice swaying with the gentle tug of the wind.