Hell

                    she has been looming in the shadows; an eerie phantom haunting the perpetual mists of her proclaimed dominion with a condemnatory gaze as she pinpoints the negligent and familiar viking: her brother’s dethroned queen. and the elysius can only contemplate whether or not it is a notion to spite, for it is not confidential knowledge that the elysius dwells within this cryptic keep, her domineering fragrance etched into the very mists shrouding the earth as if she still adorns the elysium throne -- as if her possession over this wood is engraved into the soil. and the tyrant is the indignant protector of her possessions { fiamette, the forest, her son }, vexation blossoming within the depths of her chest cavity as the compulsion to fortify and conquer hounds her vindictive conscience, defenses diligently sliding in to play as she prepares for the impending battle, the wounds she received from the secretuan trio a few months prior now completely mended, unidentifiable save for the scarred lacerations carved into her left thigh. but they merely enhance her grotesque exterior.

and the elysius attempts to descend upon the former queen perpendicularly from katja’s left side, attempting to come to a standstill approximately ten feet away from the battered viking as a crooked grin chisels her marred countenance. “perhaps searching for trouble is unwise,” the deity suggests with a saccharine croon, quirking a brow as her dulled nails haphazardly knead the earth beneath her -- biding her time if but for the moment, like the proverbial snake in the grass, waiting for the opportune moment to S T R I K E.