Insidious meanderings and damnable acts have festered as fleas among her kinsmen for as long as the Nightingale had rested her dome in their midst.

But the Nightingale did not take with hospitality and cordiality to them whom would stab a dagger into another's spine.

She did not take to the notion at all.

From sodom they emerged, onyx and alabaster, vibrant hues of violet and glacier cerulean— infernal and atrocious divulgences and gossiping breath having risen from vile, saccharine laced maw, the gentle lilt of promises, the quiet explanations of that which she has lead, been lead under, and charged to guard as the billowing wings of salvation's gates.
It was with hope that the Jester would allow new entries amidst their ever growing tides, fresh waves in which to send as battle against the shore, to spread their carnage, their right to domination and rule, their time in which had been so venomously stolen from under their maw— absinthal salt in which to dig into agonizingly fresh lacerations.

Chilled wind dances between the woman's lungs, twice, three times, and it doesn't matter. For they are to rise above that which has held pointed etchings towards their bosom, to sweep beneath unsuspecting clefts, to pillage and eradicate those whom would call themselves allies to their domes and twist a crown behind their backs, they shall slaver as canines beneath their frames and be trained and fitted into hounds of war, they shall serve with raised hackles and tremulous maw for they shall know damnation will drop upon the heads of those whom would come against them.
They shall rise as superiors.

And she has brought the mercenaries in which to call forth the dogs of war.

The aroma of a drunken man is the first to reach her, oppressed upon her tongue, the faintest of a curving simper— the congenial light fragrance of the Jester, and before the Nightingale rounds the corner she murmurs assurance that soon they shall meet her Queen, her sister.
It is the raucous and rough vocals that cause the Nightingale to slide into a abrupt halt, a storm at brine raging within a glass confined bosom, a fowl turn to the lip, and if the woman could have raised her withers into a hackle she would have mimicked the obsidian feline's examples of rage when the drakes came to gnaw upon Leto's flesh.

No.
Deception and perjury caw forth as the cries of crows from what she (has seen with her very depths) a skull faced dome, acidic slaver (and if only the brute whom deemed the blind as sinners was here, for she would send him forth as a missile in order to intercept the scoundrel of a schlemiel and cretin as that of the two-headed beast known as Confutatis (she had seen her beaten by the likes of a medic in the stead of a ruler, to what lengths did she believe she would win over that which had sent her crawling into the shadows on more then one occasion?).
The foolish hag would soon find her lungs ripped from her sinew if she believed fallacies would lengthen the pitiful excuse of a lifespan she would endure (and she would hang her bloodied dome upon a wall, beware all those whom come here, for little girls whom come in the name of daemons shall lie with the greatest of them all— indeed, here is laid down the throat of Confutatis the Schlemiel, the Queen of the puerile).

She deems the Jester all that she is not, and the ire that burns as a flame within her bodice is fueled within the damnable contours of her mind (kill her and skin her alive, the meat would do good for the starving companions of these catacombs), elegant curve of her croup bunching beneath muscle and power, hindquarters propelling her war ship towards the trio, violence flashing as the sound of drums within her vibrant, long-lashed pearls, harks lowered to her dome in furious attire (is there not a old man's tale that even Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned?).

"You," comes the silvery roll of her vocal cords, waves crashing against a storm laden beach— "what business does a suckling deceiver have among us? Do you wish to flail as a newborn babe in the battlefield once more, to lose to the likes of a medic darling? Do you still wish to try and crawl among our ranks?"
A chortling lilt in the song of bells escapes her maw, high in pitch, a tremulous guffaw in the face of that which deemed her sire a God.

"Or is it you wish to preach your sire's rights among us once more, to raise yourself as highly as you did against the Merciful? Allow me to cleanse your mind, child, for I have seen the God of the Sun myself, and whatever poisonous, vile thing that birthed you into creation with it's seed does not hold a mere candle against the council of the heaven's above." A glance towards the drunken man, a lash of her tail with a slap against her hocks, and she is gazing with wraith incarnate upon the woman once more. "Perhaps you wish to cheat your way into this man's soul? I do not speak for him, darling, but my kin are far above in both intelligence and rightfulness then the like's of you. Be gone, fowl swine, before I mount your dome upon a pillar and feed it to the wraith's outside our domain. You do not deserve salvation."

Within the very contours of a poisonous mind comes forth the ideals of a noose around the throat of the girl, a rope in which to tie around her jugular groove and snap oxygen from her very lungs, and it is from the creation her mind seeks that a bubble is formed within her minds eye on the maw of the woman— iridescent, glowing and consistently fading as a pocket of air beneath the surface of the brine, a pearl, a socket that transfixes her in it's magnificence, invisible to the naked eye and a figment of her insidious soul.
It trembles as ripples that would shiver across the surface of a calm pond, a frail egg, and the Nightingale is drawn to it as if it is the drink of the gods, as if it is the sweetest ambrosia, laced in aureate flecks.

She craves, she desires, she wants and after what seems to be a millennia she feels as if her bones have had their essence sapped into the earth below, harsh as winter's bony fingers, and she sways as a leaf on the breeze, for there is a key, and if the key is inserted into the lock, she may gather the egg as her own, to find what mystery entraps her, to use it for carnage or uplifting, to twist it to her Machiavellian longings.
The key is inserted into the lock—

and for the briefest of moments, her mind simply goes.. stygian black.




-- Permission given from Ina to PP Delinne and Dezba a little.

Circuta is using her magic aimed at Confutatis. It is up to wanda what happens next (Circuta herself is temporarily blinded by the amount of willpower it took to build it up and does not quite understand what is occurring).

For ease of effort:
( [Magic: DarkxWind | The ability to create a bubble of air around one's maw to drain oxygen from the lungs] :: [Restrictions | Morning the bubble takes immense concentration and is very difficult to maintain if the opponent is moving; symptoms last for 10 seconds and it is up to the opponent if they experience full unconsciousness] )
All solid information on Confutatis is taken from either what Circuta has accumulated from the Asylum, or from her viewing of the battle with Apollo. Anything else is mere insult and wild accusation.