Moon caressed her skin, as always, as her figure ghosted between the jutting shapes of magnificent crystals, completely translucent with cracked reflections. Many of the facets of the hexagonal stones acted as mirrors, but some were simply see-through. A lush purr would sound from splayed lips as amethysts swept across the facets of the crystals, a scar on her neck having become visible. Absently, she would move her shoulder forward, and a lock of fur would fall over it, concealing the flaw. It was healed now, but it had been a mark of war when it had been given to her. Her banner would wave behind her silver icon, pure seduction falling from her. Perhaps it was finally time she could begin to weave her way into the faulty hearts of the many naive natives of Alacritia. All but one, whom she could chose to spare her virginity with. Amethyst gems would flash between the facets of the crystals, her icon reflected in millions of places amongst the cliffs. She swore that some reflections moved or had a silvery eye, but she disregarded it as simple cracks in the crystals and her own plots in the process of making. ""

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? there is a foreboding silence in the air that the deity cannot ignore, the obvious calm before the storm as indicated by the ominous blanket of clouds looming overhead, threatening to burst at their metaphorical seams at any given moment. alas, the phantom queen is undeterred by such prospective CHAOS, her carriage elegant as she maneuvers within cloaked darkness, amethyst and metallic gaze relentlessly ravaging the premises of her surroundings for a source of intrigue. and there is no denying her restlessness that has thrived within her own boredom -- boredom that has festered as a result of her lack of duty. for without a crown to halo her temples or kin to prosper for, the elysius tyrant has no purpose -- other than to wreak havoc upon the subservient and terrorize those deserving of her merciless wrath. yet it has become apparent to the deity that her adversaries only flee in her wake; though it had also become her own self-appointed duty to locate and annihilate those who had attempted to escape her clutches unscathed. she has no rhyme nor reason to trek lands unknown; however, it is the faint { and alluring } aroma of a common harlot that instigates her rare curiosity, robust limbs propelling her preeminent form to a world encumbered by crystalline figurines. a singular brow quirks upon her lacerated forehead as her own battered reflection gazes back at her -- frigid and calculating. fervent pupils yet scan her scintillating surroundings in search of the perpetrator of her enticement, at first overlooking the pallid wraith in belief that it had merely been another of her reflections glaring back at her. however, the physique of the pretender is too feminine -- too appealing -- and immediately the phantom queen halts in her stride, disdain heavy within her mismatched gaze as she scrutinizes the other. ?a rose among thorns,? she comments dryly, announcing her presence to the oblivious vixen with a saccharine croon { however feigned it is }. ?-- but roses only wither,? is the antagonistic statement proffered with a mischievous gleam to her mismatched gaze, visage yet vacant of emotion.

The calm before the storm seemed to have dissipated, the silvery eyes winking back in the night. A ghoul with both a metallic and violet gaze had since appeared, scrutinizing the goddess before her. Quietly, amethysts would take in the masculine physique of the ghost, silvery banner simply waving absently behind her in sync with the wind, moving as gently as the wind. Perhaps it was just one of her epiphanies, though the aroma of the tempest was overwhelming, of blood, war, and battle. From the pallid lips of the tempest came simple words, voiced in a croon. Playing protagonist and antagonist, perhaps? The woman was far too old for that game, and far too experienced in playing mind games. "I am no protagonist, goddess." A smirk curled her inky lips into a different expression, richly accented speech singing from her lips. "I am just a mere flower in the night. Someday, perhaps..." A chortle escaped her lips, as she slid closer to the tempest, intrigued by this interesting tempest. Perhaps this tempest, who looked so oddly similar to her, despite their common coat coloration and opposite structures, they stood at the same height and owned their fair share of scars. "I can find a throne worthy to bleed for." Her silver banner waved as she would turn her skullage elegantly, her chassis folding neatly beneath. This woman likely knew who was an enemy and who was an ally, and this tempest seemed to be a exceptional ally so far, seeing from her fair share of scars proudly shown. Lush lyrics followed this train of thought, gazing back over at the goddess. "Any suggestions, goddess?" This warrior could be a big help in determining her goals, but she would not use her. But perhaps she could let herself { empyrea } be used by the goddess.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? her rugged physique is regarded diligently by a keen violet gaze, yet still the phantom queen retains her beguiled apathy, muscles unmoving beneath her pallid flesh. rather, she grants the woman the opportunity to gape, her own pupils unwavering from the premises of the wraith?s porcelain { and enchanting } countenance as she awaits the anticipated retaliation and physical sign of vexation from the stranger. alas, the malevolent tyrant is greeted only with amusement, vocals that are swathed in a rich, foreign accent permeating the eerie atmosphere and immediately fueling the paladin?s intrigue. despite her enthrallment with this pretender?s company, the ghost of a scowl tugs at the elysius? silken lips as she registers her given { and unwelcomed } moniker, but it is only a brief twitch of her countenance that could be easily overlooked by the inattentive. ?and i am no goddess, harlot,? she corrects the wraith pointedly, the cadence of her own voice amplified in a domineering manner. the only breathing goddess the phantom acknowledges is her carmine beauty; artemis is simply the tyrant to fiamette?s deity and would never compare herself to one as physically divine. it is the harlot?s proclamation that causes the tyrant to shift slightly in stance, interest evidently piqued as her skull inclines in the direction of the italian wraith, a singular brow elevating atop her disfigured crown. and she briefly wonders if she has discovered one willing to bleed for the purpose of selfish glory -- a true diamond in the rough among a land teeming with negligent cowards. ?if you bleed for a crown, you will be this land?s one in a million,? she comments, bitterness lacing her tones. and although the tyrant queen has witnessed a multitude of ambitious challengers { and had even played the role of homewrecker once or twice before }, she knows that the majority of alacritians thrive within predictability and peace. but that is hardly the game the elysius plays. ?pry a crown from either pitiful queen or king this world knows,? she suggests, yet abruptly her demeanor shifts as she leans closer to the wraith who had so daringly sought to approach her, hoping to tease the woman?s pallid flesh with her own bated breath. ?yet if you touch a hair upon the red empress? head --? her incisors flash to the harlot as velveteen lips peel back in a wry smirk, subtly unsheathing the woman?s potential GUILLOTINE. ?-- i will remove yours.? there is a possessive edge to her vocals, and yet, her countenance does not reflect the sinister intention lurking within the pestilent chasms of her mind.

The tyrant allowed her gaze to sweep over her figure, each motion of her eyes tracing the visible scars upon her bodice. The Elysius had fought her own battles indeed, a devil in disguise. Her lyrics seemed to have piqued the tempest's interest, though she was never one to completely flaunt her appearance and presence amongst others. Dark lips would splay in a pointed response, spikes protuding from each end. A small chortle would follow her speech at the sound of the word 'harlot'. "Are you a tyrant, instead of a goddess?" Her accented words filled the eerie silence between the two look-alikes, but not too terribly loud as to be heard across the lands. Interest curled her features into a coy smile, violet gaze seeking answers, but she wouldn't push the envelope. From what expressions she gained from the tyrant, she found the assumption that many were cowards and unwilling to bleed for a crown properly. An idea sparked her within the dark chasms of her mind, violet gaze flickering with a certian ambition. She would rip a crown from the paws of one whom had simply claimed the lost empire of a fallen family. "I already have the recollection that many in these lands are cowards that claim the remains of fallen empires." Her lyrics were to be followed by her gentle shifting of her weight, so her legs were splayed out a little bit more, to gain a more comfortable stature, as this conversation and meeting would seem to be a long one -- of which she would enjoy. This wraith was worth the time, unlike many others in this land. Her left eyebrow arced above her eyes, curious at the words of the Elysius tyrant. Pitiful kings and queens were far too common in these lands, ones who believed in perfect peace and harmony by making far too many allies than needed and hoarding lands for themselves in wastes of time. Potential guillotine sounded in her ears, her interested expression dulled. The red empress... Apollyon's ruler. "The empress of Apollyon will remain untouched -- if I find a crown and have bled for it, she will have a powerful ally in her paws." She had seen and heard glimpses of the carmine deity, and already had she have some respect for her, willing to bleed for her pride and glory. Intruige piqued her features, a question queuing on her lips. "What pathetic kings and queens do you suggest?" For dramatic effect, she would pause and look over to the side then back at the wraith. "Or would you rather me find out myself?"