Extermination, eradication, malice and sorrow rumbling within her cranium, cruel hymns and cruor dribbling lacerations, the sting of rain as it rivulets against the gash in her flesh, malleable sinew collapsing beneath her crown— the scent of copper and earth, rich and bitter weighing burdensome upon her tongue as the humid spring air, cardinal and onyx frame giving against the slice of her scythe, the life-giving liquor splattering against her dome, the barrage against sworn oath's resulting in ultimate carnage as it curves within the sinew of her croup and out again, washing away with the rolls of thunder, the flashes of lightning, the downpour of rain. There is no satisfaction, no glee coursing as a river throughout her veins, mere grim knowledge that years shall come, and the scars will only dim, but the result of her actions will remain placid against the Jester's apparel. She yanks her dome upward once more to observe the sniveling creature before her, even as she stumbles and lurches away, and the Nightingale's hoarse, shrill voice echoes once more, advancing onward after her in the promise of yet more havoc and overthrow, annihilation and demise, of yet more cruor to be spilt upon the muddied grounds, quivering and solid, stone and water. "You lied," her breath mists in the air and she snarls, torn betwixt being a wolf and a lamb, a predator and the sheep in which it preys upon. The craven continues to sway and careen, staggering as a drunken man cast from the bar, and she observes her with meek violet spheres, alabaster lashes fanning out against her cheekbones— hazy, catlike amber gaze finally meeting her own, triggering a simultaneous intake of both unhappiness and distress, coupled with ghastly determination. "You may have endeavored for a cure, but a cure has not ceased you from loving us, as a mother is meant to do for her cubs. No— my Queen, you have ABANDONED us in the wake of a better band, teaming among cretins who were deemed our allies, as if you care about them MORE! They are still our allies, not our kin. We bled for you, for the Asylum— for OUR KINGDOM. Not a house laden with strangers, to whom I would not recognize even if we met on the street."

The woman launches herself forth, mangled and battered, mutilated with the tip of her dagger, bruised, enervated and ponderous, and fleet as the wind she sidesteps starboard, flashing her croup to face the Jester's oncoming bodice and lashing out towards her right side once more, digging her hooves firm among the soil, anchored within the syrupy, foul smelling earth. If her aim was correct, she would inflict yet more bruises, anguish for days to come, if she did not find spellbound ways in order to mend her wounds, and when her weight comes crashing back down again, she uses the momentum left behind and channels it into a trot straight ahead, spraying mud to and fro, switching around to view the Queen once more. Lowering her scythe as the executioner's axe, laborious, grisly, forwards after her again, aiming for the tender, babes soft sinew of her right flank, the violet edge gleaming deathly and callous in the pale morn (forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me). All the while, her lyrics echo across the clearing, singsong and spinning, rancorous webs and vehement words. "Yet, what more should I have expected, from one whom dwells under such a legend as a Jester. Is this not what you do best? Lying, falsifying, deceit? What else should I have expected from a clown posing as a royal? You never loved us. You wouldn't have left us for a King of the desert otherwise."

Glistening fangs, slavering maw, a carnal curve to the grinning scarlet rows, glazed indigo depths. "Your sister never left us, you know. The freckled Empress. She still leads us— us, the Asylum, not a band of misplaced fools, as you are. Power has corrupted you, just like it corrupts them all. Do you know what we do with dogs gone astray, darling?" A malicious giggle rises from her bosom, fractured, slivered, delirious from anguish, unhinged. "We get rid of them, See-eel-ee."