Circuta

Ligaments set into perpetual motion— the cries and lyrics of fellows in the blackened realm beneath the surface as they crawl forth as ants from the onslaughts of their mere soil civilizations. She is aware; and she is not of a cacophony of song and dance, of the importance and measurements required of the underground refugees (and she quivers with a lack of understanding at the lyrics that haunt her harks; for why would the woman of the night allow one such monster into their ranks?)
It is then that she feels a (triumphant) and slick sounding thwack! as her dagger melds into mahogany bosom; sinew and flesh tearing and ripping, veins breaking as string in her minds eye; the adrenaline that surges along with a chorus of emotions in her own vermilion veins shuddering with brief pleasure at the well-aimed hit— and the next second trembling with dread and horror, distress and remorse as the whispers of he could have been your brother drip acrid and poisonous inside her cranium. Whom would miss the mutated hulk of a soldier before her? Whom would fall before the onyx wings of Thanatos and beg his return? His remission and reprieve? Whom would stumble with adoration and sorrow in stride toward the remnants of a forgotten lover, comrade, a brother in arms?

Alarmed and shock ricochets down a feminine spine as a bellowing roar clashes against sensitive auditory ranges; a scalding realization that he has not fallen from a blow that could (should) have laid dead weight against a delicate dagger and caused both Nightingale and Claret King to be brought down to their knees before the watchful pearls of their people (she shudders in trepidation; for what must they do to end these beasts?)
Get away.

The whites of glistening violet show in understanding of the position in which she is placed before, for when she attempts to yank back the dagger in which has been struck into his wide bosom— it is lodged within muscle and sinew and flesh and claret, a tangled mess of objects that slow her descent into the blessed shadows once more (and the salvation of her kind).
Get away.

A flash of terracotta as a force slams against bloodied brute and Nightingale alike; for as he stumbles with the projectile of a woman that reaches for his neck even now with gleaming ivories she, too, stumbles along with him, the dagger that has planted itself into his chest both a success and a failure, a leash to keep her chained to the monster, and the monster chained to she. Get away.
Futile attempts at extracting the dagger from it's rooting place continue as the grainy touch of sand begins to alight upon her hide; the voice of a familiar Sultan ringing upon alabaster lined harks as the King of Claret throws forth insults of skyrat and fool.
GET AWAY.

Aureate begins to harden in the sands, and with a cry of fright, the Nightingale wrenches backwards with the entire strength of her weakened frame in tow, a last attempt at salvation (though she does not deserve it)— and as a poisoned dagger slides back and out with a sickening sloshing noise and foul-scented blood splashes against a crazed dome she is free and stumbling backward out into the caverns once more, slipping down the slope of mud and grime and feeling her croup slam into the solid rock of a wall with agonizing force. There is a dazed moment in which the Nightingale observes the King ensnared within gilt and shore, the realization in which this could have been she, the Nightingale, entombed along with the wretched beast.
A dim murmur within the back of her mind that tells her she is safe. She is unscathed. She is alive.

The Nightingale breaks then, a shuddering muffled sound that rises from within her bones and into her very marrow, the salty tang of liquid entering through cracks in a perfected expression; bloodshot violet glazing over with the remnants of fright that jolt about in her blood (her pillars tremble) and in one instance she finds herself grounded, knees pressing against solid gravel as sickly scented vermilion dribbles down into snow washed lashes. There is the irregular beating of her heart in her throat; fast and fleeting as butterflies wings, the sudden lack of oxygen to cranium and lungs as breath comes in struggled gasps spinning her world into a dizzying array of colours and sound, of light and darkness. Her flesh is clammy, despite the warmth that should (rightly) follow a skirmish. A dim echo continues to whisper within her mind— trembling from her maw without her consent, without her acknowledgement, a odd mantra to which she has no knowledge of.
"Safe..."