Quietude and hush is shattered upon the back's of traitorous waves, villainous cries and glitter glue children. From the grains comes forth ivory and a Borealis of aureate to match. Appendages sprout from otherwise unmarred flesh, naive, gullible, and the woman feels her spine stiffen with realization of whom has waltzed through the sweet layers of meditation and awoken her to the realities of life once more. Quisling.

Rivulets of water slide down her hide as she moves with the force of the waves, forth to the tanned grains that form the coastline, pebbles and shells of long-forgotten centuries, there is iron in her lungs and a iron taste in her mouth, the waves have turned to tides of red wine and blood sloshes against the star-kissed woman's hooves, it pours down her throat and into her stomach, and she hungers and craves and a wild thirst has grown within the very pit of the poisonous apple that makes her frame and carries her weight towards the criminal, the terrorist, the thief, the sprinkle-dusted child that has dared touch the garment of the vermilion Queen. It is all in her mind, the outer skin that surrounds her placated with a soft smile, gentle, sweet, harks perked and indigo gleaming with benevolence. A tune floats forth from her maw, cheerful, as she closes the distance between them, damp frame churning the grains of sand beneath her hooves into obscure mud.
Do not wail; and do not weep.

Would the pretty girl's dome look good, bobbing along the endless waves, rolled up white's and a cloud of pink mixing with the icy kiss of the blue?
It is then that the Nightingale catches sight of the aurulent amulet that curls around the girl's neck, beckoning, calling, catching the light of the Sun with a fascination that the woman cannot explain, cannot deem normal, and this is the final straw to her desires, the object in which the God of the Sun has demanded her to gather,
She can hear his taunts in her harks, his voice in mockery of her words and she will prove him otherwise. She is no dim-witted woman, no damsel in distress, and she wants to cry out and what do you think of me now, o'Lord of the Sun?
She craves to laugh, to guffaw at the imbecile whom has come forth beneath teeth readied to rip and tear and a dagger ready to plunge into the heart of the girl whom has yet to learn the folly of strangers around her. Don't be so arrogant, little girl, she wishes to caw. This is what happens to fools whom oppose my blood. She speaks as she comes to a pause, elegant strides faltering to that of a still, a lull, breath forming steam upon icy air and lyrics oozing honey as the comb of a bee's nest. Bee's sting as well, dear. Watch yourself. "Salutations, my dear!" A gentle sweep of the dome down, and—"I am Circuta. It is a pleasure." The Nightingale raises her dome once more.
It's time for you to go to sleep.

Violent, warm pearls, swirling, dancing as that of the waves rest upon alabaster and sunflower orbs, dancing downward upon the amulet upon her bosom. With stride, bouncing, twirling, the woman circles the girl with a Cheshire grin planted on pallid lips, song as sweet as sugar. "And if I may ask, my child, without meaning to pry, where did you get that—"
The Nightingale has come to the girl's left, breath fanning against ivory and aureate flesh, the scent flowing forth reminiscent to that of wildflowers. "..Bedazzling amulet upon your neck?"

Little children, you were not clever..
And now you'll stay with me, forever.