The phoenix captures that singular scent on the wind and she tracks it, hounds it, until it brings her here. It smells of her, reeks so wonderfully of her and the strength of the scent draws dark lips tight in a grin. Mercury paces himself beside her, halting with her as she hesitates at the edge of the dark woods. The white wraith holds no official territory here in the eyes of Alacritia but to Jupiter, it is a kingdom as valid as her own. And so she waits. Haunches lower to the earth, patiently. Waiting for the tyrant to come inevitably forth from her lair.

                     it is the irrefutable stench of loiter that extracts the deity from her vile chambers, causing velveteen lips to quiver with diluted fury as she begins to pursue the transgressor with the characteristic diligence of a queen. for she is the possessive landlord of this cryptic keep and is indignant to find that yet another has managed to infiltrate her haven { the previous trespassers having been so lucky as to slip beneath her intensive radar, and for reasons untold! } ; however, the elysius will have her vengeance yet. and her strides are calculated, hasty as she internally vows against permitting this insipid fool leeway for escape from her formidable wrath, placing gargantuan paws methodically so as to obscure her looming presence from immediate detection. yet as the tyrant approaches the border of her would-be empire, it becomes apparent that whomever lingers within her proximities has done so respectfully; and her brow furrows with discernible curiosity.

she emerges from the foreboding mists like the enigmatic specter: shrouded in apathy and eerie composure, her frigid gaze reflecting the indifference of her soul as ardent pupils pinpoint the object of her intrigue. a familiar firebird lingers upon the threshold of her domain, harboring identical poise, and the ghost of a simper begins to contort the elysius’ abhorrent features as she devours the distance that separates one ruthless mercenary from the next. “miss illiadis -- the rightful ludicael queen,” she addresses the woman calmly, amusement flitting momentarily across her countenance as she recalls jupiter’s conquest over a dominion { so cowardly, unimposing! } to reclaim her iron throne -- like she had formerly aspired toward. “and what brings the phoenix to her former dwelling -- my home?”

TABLE BY ARGENT / NEFFS

(( I started a reply but had to leave in the middle so my mind kept telling me "yeah, you replied." zzzz ))

Ghoul drifts from the mist, etched with scars that spiderweb so beautifully across alabaster form. Obsidian lips pull taut in a crooked smile at the tyrant's appearance, audits pushing forth with infinite attentiveness and interest. Perhaps it is born of conceit rather than similarity but the phoenix feels as if she gazes at an alternate reflection, so mottled with scars borne so proudly on wiry pelt, rippling with muscle, paws stained with the ghost of blood cleansed in waters unclean. In those orbs, swathes of celestial and silver, she sees a reciprocal of her daughter. She finds solstice in those eyes, so near to things long lost. Soft sigh, inaudible, passes from parted lips at the way the woman greets her, pleased at the acknowledgement of the possession of her rightful throne. Grin tweaks her lips skyward as the warrior's inquiry graces her ears. "The rightful queen has merely come to pay respects to the tyrant of Alacritia," she replies smoothly, though her voice is void of the sweetness that signals flattery--it is calm, neutral, respectful in the pure lack of honey and condescension. Posture holds even, affable. "Do you plan to take an official throne?" she inquires casually? She can think of a few targets for the woman if she aspires for a perch--that is, if the beautiful savage has no goals of her own.