Circuta

Analysis and examination go hand and hand with inquiries and discoveries— she is called forth within booming vocals and deep rumbles as that of Sigul and within the burning context of her soul she pushes forward into a realm of rapture and Elysium. She is awestruck in reverence and admiration, wide violet pearls and cerulean leaves dancing within stale air and glittering as diamonds among grains of sand; fluorescent blue flickering against firelight flames and a frame of primitive mahogany, masculine in stature and features. And so she weaves and dances among the icy stars of the forgotten heavens above, sweet scented flowers catching upon her tendrils of sooty mane and caressing her flesh with butterflies of kisses, and through the trickle of a stream and the song of fellow men she is caught within the image of a pearlescent ship and depthless sea, damp sinew and gentle murmurs and the crashing waves of the general's voice.
He should be here now.

The wide innocence of a marveled gaze is broken within the memories of his disappearance; hope and faith demolished before harsh realities and the murmur of a accursed song within the circles of her conscious— and she is so fatigued and so lost, and the faint tremors of a frail frame betray the steel of violent poison pearls and elegance of step, swaying frame and twirling hooves. The woman is far too slim; ribs gleaming from beneath stretched flesh and onyx circles forming beneath glacier lashes, trembling lips and cold exterior. Her throat is raw. She feels a pang within her bosom, a agonizing crack of a whip within her glass constructed heart, and the back of her mind is numb with shock; for once and all she is forced upon the realization that he is most certainly and utterly damned to the underworld below and it is all her fault, all her fault, all her fault and God's forgive her, it is all her fault (I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry).

The husk of the porcelain doll marches forwards with the step of a electronic monster and she pauses before the two ships of men in arms, glossed over purple taking in lava carved sinew and a leonine ligament before dropping to the solid Earth below. She is parched; an uncomfortable dryness catching underneath her tongue and a weakness growing within once solid bones— there is a bubbling stream and yet she cannot force herself to drink because she does not deserve it, she does not deserve the satisfaction of living, nor does she deserve the emptiness of death, and what a funny way for us to fall; the dead come to feast upon the living. A swallow, a grating process, she can taste grit in the back of her throat and a cough works its way to the surface and she feels sick. Will she meet him?
Foolish girl. A meek whisper in the back of a haunted mind— will she fight him?
Can she?

She is sore from within the very marrow of her bones themselves; a swaying to and fro without the song of the wind against her flesh and she feels faint and is she going to pass out?
When was the last time she's slept?

....

Consumed nutrition?

....

Drank?

.....

There is iron in her mouth and she wonders with brief intent upon the pungent taste of iron upon her tongue before she realizes that she has bitten it too hard and there is blood wetting her throat.
Cannot allow them to see; cannot allow them to see weakness, cannot allow them to know you aren't sure you can make this.

And so, with meager whispers, she calls forth the ghost of a voice from within her lungs, and the oxygen itself hurts. It hurts to breathe. She thinks she can hear his voice within the back of her mind— deserter.
"I stood amongst the destruction of the Endless sweep of the Blue. I was there at the infection of the land of Specters in which it began. I can.. offer any information upon how it started, if need be." Her knees tremble and her voice is a croak and she wants to scream at herself for being so damned feeble but she isn't sure she can work up the energy to do so.
What more can she do?

"I.. I can search for that of a cure, if given the proper subjects in which to run tests upon; Sultan of the Throat."
She sounds as that of a imbecile.
She knows it.

Stop it.
Stop what?
....

Stop everything.

Quilyan

The deposed prince does not like taking orders from those he does not know, but he no longer has a choice. It would seem that the herds, crammed into these caves, have combined their forces and, somehow, the primitive Sultan of the Throat has won out as leader. He does not like it. He can think of quite a few other individuals more qualified to lead. But no one asked him, and, despite his reservations, here he stands, silent among the ranks of those who have already offered their services as 'siguls.' He had missed the first meeting as he took care of his princess, but as she came into her own role, he found that his life in the caverns was... lacking. Besides, he had always been good at finding information, with a flirtatious, shifty turn of mind that made him a master at manipulation and secrets.

He steps forward now, his violet gaze meeting Gaucho's squarely. He will not bow to the warrior, for though he respects all that Gaucho has presumably accomplished to be granted a role as leader, the primitive brute is not his leader. He follows Kaj, and Kaj alone, now that Mirage has disappeared. He shakes the thought away, sorrow pricking at his heart. Though he had not known the little shadow mare well, she had offered he and his lady a home, and he felt that he owed her. In fact, he is alive now because she had been kind enough to allow them to stay.

"As far as I have been able to tell, the darkness grew from the coast," he told the group at large. "It seems that it invaded the Spectral Marsh, the Veins of the Gods, and the Endless Blue first, and then spread from there. It seems safe to assume that the darkness, and the wraiths it has created, will continue to spread throughout Helovia." He falls silent, contemplating. He feels that he has an important piece of the puzzle, somehow, but he cannot figure out how it all fits together. "I am Quilyan, of the World's Edge. I would like to join your siguls."

"Talk talk talk."