Crash Course
Like the empires of the world unite
Cocoa spheres settle upon them, glittering, gleaming, flecks of gilt to reflect his metallic hide— shrouded inquiries, dancing across the Machiavellian soldier, the devilish, the ironclad, the rancorous and segregationist, the one whom had brought a wing as a prize to the lady Psyche, the DarkEmpress, whom had bled and sweat and curved his way into the innerworkings, the Plague, the disease as so named by others whom knew of its existence, and yet it was not a plague, but a revolution, a cleansing, a anti-virus to rush through cruor and rid of tainted kin and mutated flesh, to inflict demise upon those whom would deem themselves equals of the lineage of Cinnoru— to wipe taint from once saccharine waters. A glint of gilt gleams in the morn air, as the daemon nestled upon the Queen's leapt into the skies, cawing, screeching, salutations and warnings, eloquent speech spoken from the Impersonator, tilted domes and diplomatic measures, and when the beast responds with dipped dome and solvent, silver speech, mocking, perhaps, he allows a grim smile to grace his impassive features, rich, guttural, gravelly, yet far from grating. "I fret I am no diplomat. I serve as a soldier— the ways of bloodhounds elude me."

He remains hushed, harks dancing to and fro across his dome, listening, waiting, a dauntless, imperial, a sentinel to ward the starved of death to their own demises, to trap foes within prisons, to rip, to cauterize, to terrorize and slay upon a field of battle, to wield scythe and sword in immaculate sways, to inflict his nefarious longings, his sadistic cravings, his loathing in the art of lacerations, asperous, ominous, and yet no dagger is yielded towards the gilded, cerulean once more to cocoa, introductions given as Thranduil, for he is of pure make and kind, and unless he shows himself as a peril, as a leech, a parasite, he shall treat him as brother, as kin within the mountain. "Well met, Thranduil."

He shall allow the doe to sing, to weave lyrics, poems, riddles, will allow her to bring forth their kingdom, their law, their rule, will allow her to spin lace threads and tantalizing dishes, rankings and leads, Reaper's whom dwell upon a throne and GildedBlade's who are swathed in pyre, but it is the step of hooves that bring crepuscule gazes upon a terracotta and alabaster girl, emerald spheres and dainty stride, wonders as to if she shall step towards his scythe and meet extermination upon his blade, if she comes with sword and shield, if she wishes to meet demise on this eve, and his listless stare flashes to the glass wielded crown upon her dome, the spun royal and onyx, the translucent tidings, trailing, crafted down her spine to her dock, and he restrains a snarl, keeps a taciturn air and unemotional dome, but now there s ire in his claret, for she dares to wear the crown of his species when it is certain that she is naught, for his do not have trailed glass down their spine, wrapped around their tail, do not have meticulous craftings to wield their swords, are born with them, are blessed, and the jester before him sends a chill of fury down his immaculate spine.

Stone, obsidian, callous and composed, he keeps his attention upon her, only dancing his gaze to the porcelain doe and the gilt of sinew once in order to determine how things fare, whilst the jester spins new diplomacies, new political speeches, new cordial welcomings, bemused, uncertain, for what are the Falls; and her title wavers in his impenetrable catacombs, files, she complements his homeland as a subject may his Lord, stating that they are of vigorous standard, of glorious capital, magnificent, splendid, worshipping.

She is uncrowned.
Fit for the slaughter; and he allows his hardened stare to soften, mere a pinch, to please the servant, whilst insidious curves within his mind, merciless, wicked.
A devotee and a laborer, a pilgrim whom deems them superior, they the superior race, and he would latch onto her ideas with firm grip, ice, jagged lips and stained flesh, feather swaying with the wind in his tresses.

A servant is good for many things, a thrall.
And she is wholly, utterly swathed, complacent, true to the belief, for he, they, are.

And I'm like ooh, ooh