The lady Nightingale wearied, enervated, teeters on the edge of the psychotic and the paranoid, rabid as the jaws of malnourished hounds upon the scent of fresh claret, to stain and drip across slavering lips and barbarous grins, pacing as fleeting apparitions in the umbra that surrounds her, drapes across her as a cloak to trail upon the earth. The lull of rest beckons, out of reach of a vulnerable cranium, for solitude and lies of tranquility has been washed away as the evening tide upon the brine. And so she queries, searches, drives ever deeper into the tangled mess of the Labyrinth, dwells within hidden corridors and accursed chambers (she has found skeletons lining the closets, long forgotten names laid to rest in a entombed civilization).

She, as the waves, is malleable, conforms and melds with twists of current and the vicious fingers of the wind, enfolded with a cocoon of yearning, ravenous thirst for the morn, the icy kiss of winters past that does not bite into her flesh so ferociously in the midst of the caverns, she does not feel the burn of the brine nor the kiss of it's salty tang, does not feel the tug of the cerulean sea and she desires it with such unholy force that it scalds each agonizing step into salvation. She is malleable, but she too, fractures and crumbles under the weight of her desires, the weight of her losses— endures sorrow and grieves for that which she has lost, and if the droplets of ocean that dribble from dim pearls causes cracks and chips in the mortal flesh of beings, the fissures in her cheeks would birth rivers into existence.
Alas— the emancipated frame of a once enraptured being is cast as the only clues to her well being, for the fissures do not show upon her flesh, do not carve creeks upon her sinew as the starlit woman dances among the divine, sways as a leaf in the wind into the city of lights, a cathedral beneath the deep. Luminous leaves sway with the tender force of newborn babes, rising and twirling towards the invisible surface above, florid azure and malachite gleaming and glittering as the night skies in which she was so infatuated with; a sheen to cover her in brilliant hues of stained glass panes, delicate buds of flowers catching in long tendrils of mane and tugging forth from their homelands, shimmering as twinkles of fireflies entangled within charcoal and ivory cascades.

But the Nightingale does not remain lone in Labyrinth of light, pinpricks of water spraying from a torrent of precious liquids upon her clammy sinew, constellations forming from long-lashed and violet depths, the crisp scent of rain forest blessing her nostrils and sinking into her sinew, scalding her with the aroma of hyacinths, ambrosial and fragrant to the tongue— and yet a heaviness drapes around her bones, frozen as the kiss of the tundra, beguiling and exotic, the very buds of hanging petals seem to wilt and fade in it's exuberance, the breath of death upon her withers.
She sees him, then.

He seems to prowl as that of of wolf upon the scent of a delicatessen dish, flesh as onyx as obsidian and realms set upon his dome as cerulean as the sea, he gleams and shines as the rivulets of water that cascade down her hide and attempt to wash away her sins, dagger jutting from his brow in elegant display of supremacy and righteousness, and despite the Machiavellian tendencies of her kin and the knowledge that she is facing the Reaper himself, the King of a snow bound kingdom, the Nightingale feels no unease, does not wallow in trepidation, but the merest of touches of sanctuary and refuge in his almighty presence. And so she gathers herself against the strange breath of destruction that surrounds his aura in carnage, gathers the silvery vocals she has lost at the back of her throat during weeks of going without precious waters, and allows it to flow as soft and free as the rain through her maw.
"You made it."

It is a fleeting smile upon her alabaster lips, the barest hints of joyous tendencies, before it too is washed from her features, sent into the grasp of oblivion.
"The kingdoms did not come to you, Reaper. It would seem that they were content in seeing damnation grasp it's fingers upon your kind, and yet.. I could not allow your people to go without warning. I would not see such unrighteousness befall you." Would those whom had called her sister in the bonds of alliances of her people know and trust the act of trickery behind their very backs? The Nightingale queried these thoughts, and yet she had seen the lack of care they had so pooled from their very bones, she had seen the salvation of her people— and she could not lay down trust to those whom would see her kin rot whilst they feasted upon lush grasses and sweet waters. "I am pleased to see you have arrived. I am Circuta, laid down as temporary Queen of the Asylum, alongside my sister Eris whilst the Jester is gone from us. I would offer my assistance to your people if need be, my warriors.. my knowledge. How may I aid you, brother?"




@[Deimos]