A triad of both the avian and the crowned come forth — a short woman of cream and cerulean, a devil winged succubus, and a girl of the moon whom both gentle aroma and royal splashed hide she, the Nightingale, recognizes as the longing artisan of the Asylum, kin, cruor, and she allows the merest of gazes to rest upon she, a softening dancing within the contours of a delusional mind (for even the cursed, the forsaken, is no fresh face to the affections of a family, and she shall risk both life and crowned dome in order to lift them into salvation, far from the trembling and bony grasp of eradication and sodom), before dancing as pallid and furtive flame to the aureate beside her— and once more up to the gilded caliph as the phoenix that sails alongside him emits a screech from its breast, and alights upon his spine and withers (she does not fear the aureate and flame entrap beast, for she is marvelous and glorious, but the seething that chokes and winds as rope to ensnare her bosom is far more encompassing, far more empowered, a wildfire to match that which scalded within the soul of the fire kissed bonded).

Indeed, this, is where the Nightingale begins to pay proper attention to the Caliph; a song of etchings and lyrics escaping his onyx maw in a cascade of song— and she fixates the passive, violent in variation and hue, a turmoil of storm and brine crashed beach, of clockwork and intelligence and there is a darkness that broods as ice beneath the surface, a edge, for she is no childe and she, too, has once heralded the title of leader amongst her kin, has once led them into and from salvation, and she shall not place the fate of their brothers and sisters within the hands of a King if she does not approve of their flesh and marrow, of their personage, she shall not place her brothers and sisters in the hands of a stranger as she would not place her newborn babe into the hands of a purloined eradicator of men or women alike.
(If he so much as harmed a hair upon the pelt of any of her kin, she would allow him the knowledge of quite how much an irate and ireful female could be when faced upon the harm of their newborn cubs).

She does not give pause to her intentions, a gaze any mother would recognize, for he is handling her kin and she eyes him with the baleful expression a father may when examining their childe daughter's choice in men, strict as stone (and yet malleable to the future), does not pause when the cruor Queen drags a feather touch of a muzzle across the sleek sinew of her neck, impassive, for if the cardinal woman was a sword— she was the shield.
The cruor Queen remained reticent, leaving the Nightingale to observe the Gilded Caliph and the Jester Queen with the (highest) of a pliable frown. As the Caliph began to speak once more, the star-breasted woman tilted her dome upward, turned toward the dual couple standing (statuesque) upon the pedestal, queries and clockwork, Machiavellian ideas and curved cruelties, her kin drove her from home and bedding in the name of the forsaken and if a crow King with a trillion and few army feared the wrath of the witch, then they, too— would learn to wither and cower in her presence, to weep, to murmur and plead and she would see that each dagger lain blow would rest upon a grave of roses.

They would not see the violet eyed mistress for whom and what she served— not until Thanatos laid icy fingers upon clammy hide — and she would relish the primal rush of hunger as they succumbed to poisonous herb and tenebrous magic alike (let them suffer, let them believe, a Queen of cardinal would sit the throne and wear their bones for a chair).

“I would see this herd grow strong and flourish, both Asylum and those that claim Hidden Falls.”
She wished for them to rise to aptitude, to prestige and sovereignty, to spread salvation and aphotic meanderings across shivering earth, for they would rule under the sign of the realm in which they laid forth cause themselves, and if any dared stand in their way, she would draw both scalding dagger and sword to strike them down as the cretins they were (and she would begin with the skull-faced war schemiel). Her Queen leans upon her side— and she queries as to her thoughts, her ideals, her atrocious and nefarious induced speculations and deliberation, succoring glow from her flesh calming furious intentions within her own mind. But as the Caliph spoke once — she finds herself baffled at his lyrics, a haze of turbulence trembling within the contours of her mind. “I would also move to honor those that stood in a position of power.” Inquisitive.

And he beckoned for them. The cruor Queen and the forsaken Nightingale.
Why?

The shock of it turns her spine to concrete— why? What has she done to deserve such ranking? What has she endeavored, but to defend a Queen from a skull-faced liar?

As light as a mouse the woman slinked forwards, delicacy and grandeur spreading as rivulets down her frame, dome stretched high toward he and she, disbelief evident in the violent hue of her pearls.
"King of Dragons, you call upon me?" Her sharp gaze snapped to Eris and smiled— ever so slightly — as the surprise was clear in the woman's gaze, before returning once more attention to the Jester and the Caliph.
“Would ye stand as Sleuth, overseer of spies?”

Once again, bafflement filled her, widening purple to dance across to the Empress, and then once more to the Caliph. Did they wish to bribe, to extort, to exact loyalties upon them with the promises of high ranks? Did they wish to draw them into their armies with saccharine promotions? She was not a cavalier, a vain childe, and yet the deference was not cast away, demanded null, for she would always place the safeties and weight of her people upon she whom would aid them.
And so, with a dry mouth, the Nightingale spoke, honeyed, silvery, pallid and wavering, weaving saccharine songs with the air drawn to led lungs. Yet, strengthened, with the knowledge her kin delve among her.
"My acceptance is given. I will safeguard our kin from prying eyes and sharp tongues, Gilded Caliph— may I prove my worth of the position with fidelity and allegiances to our cause."

   (And for once— the cardinal Queen and the Nightingale serve a common ideal: Lord of the mountains, may they forgive her).

CIRCUTA and ERIS