ooc; liquid-timing this to the point just after art's kids open their eyes. not sure when that'd fall during the two week time period.

                     cloaked in scarlet regalia, she glides -- a stoic tyrant and harbinger of death, the limp cadaver of a gored babe nestled betwixt murderous jaws. he { the impotent victim } the blood of her own blood, a prodigal son laid to waste upon the impulsivity of his own mother. for he so resembled his grandfather that the elysius could not suppress the overwhelming urge to unleash formerly repressed fury and despair upon his feeble body -- now mutilated beyond repair and reminiscent of N O N E. one so wrought with potential reduced to naught but a festering carcass; cold, unmoving, dead -- like the stillborn sister before him.

yet the tyrant retains a facade of beguiled apathy as she discards the minuscule corpse at her paws, reclining contentedly upon chiseled thighs whilst her frigid gaze rests somberly upon his youthful physique. a singular forepaw elevates from its perch upon the soil and extends towards his crippled form, tainted digits maneuvering beneath his chin to tilt his skull backwards, granting the deity with a full view of his corrupted visage. abhorrent and sightless -- verdent eyes pried ruthlessly from his skull, leaving bloodied sockets in their wake. and she, a mother who had annihilated her son like she would an adversary -- like she had before.

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Her ivory paramour has a way of slipping out of her sight without a single trace of evidence, especially when she is up to no good.  Fiamette is approaching the opening of the den when she hears the lonesome cries of Odysseus, and immediately her defenses start to rise. Artemis hasn't left the children unattended since she gave birth to them, and the fact that only one pup was crying worried her. They had lost one pup already, and she knew Artemis couldn't afford to lose another. "Artemis? She mumbles through the hare she has clenched between her jaws, her petite form slipping through the dens opening in a swift motion. Her eyes scan the cavern for Artemis, but she is no where to be found. "Ody... It's okay Ody." She says softly as she drops the hare and crouches down next to the small pup, her tongue softly caressing his small body as she attempts to soothe him. There is blood on the ground, a lot of blood. Carmine audits fold atop her skull as she realizes the other pup is gone too. What has Artemis done... She wastes no time. After soothing Ody back to sleep she takes off into the forest, her senses trained on the scent trail Artemis left in her wake. She follows the trail completely out of the soulless forest, and surprisingly it leads her to the Rio Grande river. Why would Artemis be here, and did she take the other pup with her? She could only hope so. It doesn't take but a few more minutes for Fia to find Art, the woman's pallid bodice becoming visible on the horizon. Her pace quickens, and she does not stop running until she has reached the woman. She aims to come beside Art's right, and as she approaches, the scent of blood and death infiltrates her senses. Volcanic orbs look over the tyrant first, crimson liquid staining her mouth and different parts of her body. Then, her eyes fall upon the mangled form of the small pup at her lovers paws. Her jaw drops open as she gazes at the limp body, silence falling over the duo as she is lost for words. What has Artemis done.... "Speech"

                    the resonating footfalls of her scarlet counterpart has been engraved into the folds of the deity’s psyche, triangular ears thus swiveling in the direction from whence fiamette approaches to acknowledge the empress’ looming presence. frigid gaze yet remains diligently fixated upon her son’s battered countenance even as her carmine beauty draws adjacent to the abominable display, an eerie and foreboding silence prevailing between the trio as the elysius permits scrutiny, permits judgment. she anticipates reprimanding from the beauty for her transgressions against her own progeny, anticipates melancholic sentiments and bitter proclamations of a declining mentality, yet receives nothing -- nothing but disconcerting and condemnatory q u i e t. the calm before the storm, so the elysius presumes.

the forepaw that had supported her son victim’s diminutive skull abruptly descends to his crippled chest cavity, where slight force is applied to nudge the abhorrent corpse off of the river’s edge and into its murky depths. red blossoms and infiltrates the crystalline blue hue of the river as the miniscule form of an underdeveloped babe plunges into its depths, creating a webbing of blood from its fragile epicenter -- grotesquely aesthetic in the eyes of a killer queen. pupils are unwavering from her handiwork as her son’s carcass hovers and drifts with the current, the apathetic guise of her countenance unyielding, stagnant. for he had been deserving of her wrath; he, the incarnation of her wretched father.

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