And no one can hear you scream

                                the execution of the deity’s regal promenade has faltered since conception, strides less calculated and refined due to the baggage of excess weight upon her abdomen { where developing tyrants fester }. yet she retains an intoxicating aura of supremacy and contempt despite her obvious hindrances; broad skull ascended above tectonic shoulder blades while her tail hovers in alignment with the notches of her spinal column, both irrefutably confident and dangerously assertive. though within the chasms of her own distorted psyche lies the unwavering belief that such a domineering stance is well-deserved and warranted, for she is the usurper — the undefeated! and those that lurk within her poisoned womb are fated to the similarly prestigious titles and regalia which plagues the elysius surname.

and the tyrant queen is elated by the prospect of whelping ruthless and competent children militants, a desire to allocate the news of her latest and greatest conquest to her ally of the northern region { the nubile armada sovereign } forcing the deity to vacate the premises of her misted crypt in favor of her former haven. nostalgia pricks at the deity’s taut flesh as the winter winds rake relentlessly through her pallid coat, velveteen nostrils flaring to indulge in the bittersweet aroma of pine and frost — a lack of isardis’ overwhelming scent prominent to the elysius. yet she disregards the thoughts which taint her psyche as the tenor of another’s vocals permeate the silence of her surroundings, curiosity withdrawing the tyrant from her self-appointed mission as she allows for the cadence of his voice to guide her directly to him.

a smirk flits across the tyrant’s abhorrent features as she halts in her saunter, frigid gaze scrutinizing his unimposing physique as he manifests within her line of vision — pathetically pining. and she is unfazed as she dares to encroach upon his personal space, skull cocking lazily to her right as she regards him with mild intrigue. “leave her before she can leave you,” the tyrant suggests affably, the ghost of a simper etched upon her countenance. “or —” she pauses, a singular brow quirking thoughtfully upon a sullied forehead, “— kill them all. and you will not waste such thoughts or energy on replaceable whores and incompetent babes.”