The Princess sets high standards upon those who deem her a childe of a fool. You are aware of this— you birthed her into existence with ink-written whispers and giggling laughter between you and the girl who shaped her ship into a impenetrable fortress. You are also aware of the monster that resides into her conscious as a beast of the Devil; for you are the wind and the breath against their nostrils and you do not exist in this realm of equine and illusion.
The Princess does not bow beneath Machiavellian tendencies that have enwrapped so many of your puppets as such cloth— does not weave metaphors and cruelties in words and song as you are well known to indulge yourself in. For she is solid; a stone that rises up from bronze Earth and chocolate caresses (you know this is not Earth; however; for this is the land that whispers of Loorien, and you have grasped the name with such force you can recite it within the analogs of your memories).
She does not.

She does not know. For the Princess you have crafted— this realm is as much of an Earth as you are so well accustomed to, so ensnared within; and as you fill your stomach with delicacies of a distant sky she has trekked forth from disease and death and is hunted by beasts of once friends and once allies (but the Princess does not need allies or friends— you know this as lies; but whispers of a beastial woman are determined to deny your attempts at bashful and civil speech). It's not as if the dead bother the Princess— she has seen more dead then you have within your lifetime (and that rabbit caught within the jaws of your mutt's teeth do not count; it survived despite the wine that pooled from it's side). It is not the dead that bother her, for she is a machine of war; a woman who has grown up within societies of racism and damnation (you wince at the very thoughts that burn her conscious as smoke; what does it matter if one's flesh is purple or cream?). It is the fact that the dead are not dead that bothers the Princess; it is the personal ideals that the dead should remain lifeless and the living should be filled with righteous flames within their veins— and you almost feel sorrow burrow itself within your own mortal flesh for you know she is to expect but worse as the days drag on; you know she is to throw herself towards a freight train in the form of a electrical girl the size of a ant in comparison to she (you have laughed at the differences in size and you almost feel bad because the Princess is fat in measurements to the feisty blue).

And so you watch as the woman of Elysia stumbles forth from the shadow of the Sanctuary that has shielded her; heaving her heavy ship upwards to the burning surface for she is certain she has seen a wisp of a young one fleeing into the diseased realm above and she will not allow such stupidities to damn them all (once more you flinch; for you know that the woman that has taken flight is immune to such diseases and she is not; that she may be diseased and you must write her future during this time of remorse and ill luck).

By the time you see the lug of a woman huff herself to her cloven hooves and yank her snorting facial features upwards to the cerulean speck upon the horizon; racing, dancing, curving you know she is going to follow her winged sister into the skies; to grapple her back with blunt force if nothing else, you know she is to be the foolish one that will most certainly become electrocuted by a girl borne from the lightning and thunder herself— you would gift this knowledge upon her and yet you know you cannot and that you are bound to the restraints of the creator and the creation.

And so the Princess screeches a caw to the heavens; you can hear the rumbling vocals and the accent and you remember with laughter in your mind what the one named of the chilly month of Halloween had described her as. You; yourself, are guilty of playing the practical joke of deeming her a bellowing ox before, aren't you?
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" a beat, a second beat, a third beat of your heart and get the move on hoss.
"I COMMAND YOU TO RETURN TO THIS PREMISES IMMEDIATELY CIVILIAN!" And then there is a quake beneath her hooves as a trot becomes that of a canter and a canter becomes that of a gallop and there's still a twig sticking out of one of those eagle's wings and you hiss as you imagine tendons and flesh about to be ripped as monster wings yank to and fro from hefty sides.

The girl of blue has taken flight into the skies and there is disease upon the horizon— please be safe— and then wings are yanked forth from bruised ligaments and her bellows fade into the crisp morning air as she raises clumsily into the skies after her kinsman. You are aware that you, too, shall fade soon; upon the next writing, and you shall be gone into the view of your creation, you shall never be here. You were never here.

You finish with a flourish; a small upside frown upon the pursuing in flight woman's maw. I'll keep you safe as long as I can; dearest; and you laugh at the thought because if she knew she was deemed dearest from her creator she would rip her limb from limb.
And.. good luck.

You end it there; until next time you return to your own drabbling thoughts.
Farewell.