Bribery, exaction— a trading betwixt souls, the amulet strewn across the interlopers bosom for information regarding her kin, and the revulsion and nausea that rises inside her throat is akin to acid, bile, for what sullen double-crosser did the gilt fleshed girl think she was? No, she had beheld the fiery Lord herself, in all his splendor and glorifications, bowed before him as a subject to her King, been rewarded with the rich lyrics of his hymns, the egg whom had gleamed with pyre, sheltered within her homeland even now. The saffron bauble to which he had demanded of her, then returned with raucous benevolence was lain against her own bosom, wrapped around her neck, the chilled plate soothing. Was the childe blind as well as feebleminded, scorning their demands? "Do you think me a petty whistleblower, girl? If my brother, Rostislav, wishes to speak to you, then he will of his own terms."

Before she could continue, the Empress filters in— cruor staining her flesh, electrifying cerulean spheres gleaming, followed by a argentate paladin with a alabaster tiger at his hooves. It seems that the two Artisans have not gathered her message to leave, for they remain, the painted woman deeming that she wished to learn more of such circumstances, and the Nightingale merely graces them with a elegant dip of her dome, noticing the iron and alabaster kin's seeming uncomfort in the crowd, and so she moves ever so slight, allowing the odd brute with a tail stretching up from his neck room to leave, if he so wished.
In the next moment, the damsel begins to bellow, bane and profanities dripping from her lips, and the Nightingale merely gazes, impassive and apathetic, impervious to the cawing, the crowing, the insensitive and foolish speech she weaves. Drawing forth the witches claret within her veins, the world darkening within her own mind, sewing the foaming, pearlescent bubble around the child's maw, activating the deliberating and exhausting task with minor difficulties as she screeches this and that, filling it whole within a matter of seconds. She'd practiced for these very scenarios, after all. Her placid, smooth and infernal lyrics spin forth, holding and toying with her magic as a puppet upon the string, palming and tasting the surface as a ripe apple, querying upon the flavor. If the impassioned filly is flame, then she is water, and if she is pyre, then she is the rain, the storm, the waves crashing against the beach, the expanse of the raging, turmoil infused brine.

If she was the shore, she was the sea.
"I grow exhausted of this game. If you had truly listened, instead of simply heard, then perhaps we could have avoided this foolishness. You have been cautioned, told, and reprimanded. You know the price paid for trespassing on another's land. I will not warn you again, suckling. Leave."

And then the world exploded.
Rebellion and riot— disorder and assault, flames and pyre, unleashed wings and scalding heat sent forth— and it is then that she fears, but not for herself, for her kin, for her brothers, for the knowledge that springtide is filled with warmth and the buds and lush grass are all too easy to catch aflame, for the foals that have been birthed in her kingdom's walls, under the pretense of a safe haven. The girl is screaming, she hears the Lightningborne's cackle, and it is then that she stops toying, holding back the magic that she has already formed around the woman's maw, to drown, to gag, strangle and suffocate, she rends the breath from her lungs, feeling her flesh simmering at the proximity to the fiery, raging, irritable lass, and observing with distress and apprehension the heroic act of the painted Lady, before twirling about to face the argent brother with the tiger at his hooves. "Go! Find a mender! Now!" With a flourish to face the odd one, with the tail stretching from his neck, she commands. "Get away from her!"

In the oncoming seconds, however, a monsoon arrives— darkening the skies with clouds, gusting within her tresses, pelting her with deluge, as it rivulets down her side. Her heart thrums within her bosom, palpitates as she attempts to place herself before the gathered men and the irate woman,acrimony writhing within her throat. "How dare you come to our lands, and attack us! In our own sanctuary, none the less! Dôl gîn lost."
But her endeavors are not in vain, for it seems she has attracted the interest of the second Legatus, Rostislav. She gives him a wary stare as the drunken man approaches, but ultimately returns her gaze to the interloper. "What in the divine's holy name's have you dragged in, Rostislav?"



:: [Magic: Dark x Wind | 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]

Dôl gîn lost is Elvish, for your head is empty.
Phrased that her magic hit, seeing as herdlands have permission to use full forced magic upon intruders.