Of all the places across Charon, Zeinav City truly had to have some of the most ludicrous weather out there.

It isn't especially often that Lachesis gets to venture out from the familiar comforts of her woodland home-- she has things to attend to, after all, and being the head witch of the Circle of the Moth is demanding work, the coven's gnarled fingers carefully closing off any chance she might have to go chasing after a vacation, let alone somewhere as far from the Black Bog as the desert. But luckily enough, one of the younger witches under her care had been swept up by the winds of chaos and just so happened to need some components for potioncraft that could only be found amidst those gilded sands, and who was Lachesis to say no to a chance for travel?

And so, here she stands, sauntering through the streets of Zeinav City with perhaps more-than-one bag on her arm and a fan in the other, sweat clinging to the nape of her neck despite having those pale gold curls swept up in their usual clips and ribbons, despite the lightweight fabric of her scarlet dress, respite found between the spaces of mesh. Even Bella and Donna are practically drooping at her back, as though they, too, are susceptible to the heat! Dear Eclipse Maiden, she's almost starting to regret ever having agreed to venture out this way-- for all her love of the sun, she certainly has no intention of getting this intimate with it!

A quiet sigh spills from her throat as she turns the corner, still scanning around for any signs of that damned components vendor she'd come out here for in the first place--

when she lays eyes upon the sight of a strange child gleefully dipping a paintbrush in a liquid far too thin and crimson to be mere paint, before dragging it across the sandstone to finish up a message. He seems to have no concept of the fact that he's brazenly committing vandalism in plain daylight-- let alone openly threatening vandalism.

...well, she'd best intervene.

"...hello there, dear," she begins as she approaches, careful to keep the skepticism out of her voice. After all, who knows what reason a child might have to be writing unnerving messages in blood across the buildings of Zeinav City? "Might I ask what you're up to? Did you run out of parchment to draw on?"

---

Bringing Pets:

- Bella (Dancing Chain)

- Donna (Dancing Chain)

"Wha?"

The child turns around, brush still dripping red onto the sandstone curb. He's clothed in the strangest mix of accoutrement. For the most part, his clothing is simple and plain, the telltale symptoms of a less-fortunate-born -- certainly less fortunate than Lachesis, if only appearances are weighed. But atop his head is an accessory of fine silk: whimsical and archetypal, a pointed witch-hat. It is much, much too large for him. But even this is not so surprising as what covers much of the upper half of his face: bandages, all across his left eye.

His other eye, however, gleams a brilliant gold -- a similar shade to his hair. His face harbours not a single hint of the guilt that one would normally display upon being caught red-handed. And red-handed he's been caught, as well as red-clothed and red-faced, as the blood with which he's painting has been carelessly spilled upon much of his being in the time that he's been brazenly vandalizing this property. It's even stained the bandage on his eye (at least, such is the hope).

"Oh!" he bounces slightly. His voice carries the soft energy that's so reminiscent of youth. "No, I was just.... just..."

He begins to offer what would be a much-needed explanation. But then his eye drifts upward, to the hat of Lachesis' head... and then that eye widens in utter wonder. His jaw slacks, and he stands in utter silence.

...At least until the bucket of blood slips from his hand, spilling catastrophically across the stone. But he doesn't care, if he even notices; he's utterly transfixed on Lachesis' headwear.

"You're... You're..." As he struggles to form the words, his body begins to vibrate, as if ready to explode. But then he practically leaps forward, standing before her, eyes sparkling with complete and utter awe. "You're a witch!! Oh my goodness, you're a witch!" He bounces irrefutably. "Oh my goodness, and you're so pretty too!! It's been so long since I've met one of you!"

What cohesion he has in his words is lost as the young boy devolves into a raving mess, jumping about with the most wondrous of smiles on his face, feet splashing in the pool of blood that's rapidly forming beneath him. The onlookers are becoming rather perturbed by the sight...

Of all the things Lachesis had expected when she made the decision to approach the child, unfettered, youthful enthusiasm had not quite made the list.

Painting eerie messages in blood-- the Eclipse Maiden only knows where he got it all-- is not exactly something well-adjusted children get around to, after all-- that's the sort of thing you see budding cultists do, the sort of thing set aside for the pawns of the powerful. But this child hardly seems disturbed-- beyond the bandages wound around his face, his eyes glisten a brilliant gold, their shine only rivaled by a smile nearly too big for his young face. He paints quite the picture, really-- a little witch thrumming with luminous joy, blood staining the black and white fabric of his clothing in dissonant serenity.

She raises an eyebrow, feeling Bella and Donna twitch nervously at her back, caught in a whirlwind of curiosity and apprehension, and she's about to ask again just what this kid thinks he's doing, and--

And then a sense of wonder fills that golden eye, and...

Well. Lachesis isn't capable of denying any praise.

"...why of course I'm a witch, child," she's quick to say, giving a red-lined smile and a short nod. She flutters her fingers to let light dance between them-- not a concrete spell, but rather the indication that magic thrums in her veins, pulses as naturally within her as a heartbeat. "They call me Lachesis Calyptra, Maiden of the Mothlight, Sorceress of the Eclipse-- it's quite lovely to meet a budding little witch."

She clasps her hands together, the steel of her claws clicking together, practically preening over the compliment. It may be a compliment paid by a possibly-deranged little witch painting propaganda across the buildings of Zeinav, but it's still a compliment! Besides, being potentially deranged doesn't mean you're always wrong.

"Now, little witch-- what precisely are you doing out here? You're making quite the scene."

At being referred to as a little witch, the boy breathes so rapidly that he seems ready to pass out (if not away). He's possessed by the spirit of pure, unbridled giddiness.

But then she asks her question, and the look of lost-child confusion returns to his cherubic face. One can practically hear the question-marks in his silence, made all the stranger by the fact that he's utterly drenched in blood that definitely isn't his own. He looks around at the disgusted townspeople, seeing a mother covering her child's eyes and a guard that appears to be inwardly deliberating whether or not he should be making an arrest.

"Dunno. I was just supposed to write this on a few walls. There were these funny people who-... Oh no!" Finally, he's noticed that he's standing in a pool of what sanguine once had been contained in the now-tipped bucket. He freezes in shock. "Oh no, I was supposed to use that! I... I..."

He holds down the rim of his hat, hiding his face as his bloodstained body shakes. But then regaining, or perhaps falsifying his confidence, he reaches down and picks up the bucket.

"I-I need to go get more! Umm, it was nice meeting you, Sorceress of the Eclipse-lady!"

Without another word, he scampers swiftly into one of the alleys.

...This probably shouldn't be left alone.

Oh, dear.

It's quite clear now precisely what has happened-- this strange child has been effectively taken advantage of, naively thrown into doing the dirty work for some wretched organization, sparing whatever criminals who sent him out this way the trouble of grappling with the authorities. It's... brilliant, admittedly, in all its grotesqueness-- it comes with the ease of sparing yourself the trouble of endangering your own skin, and will a naive child even know any better than to question an order given by an adult? Of course not-- all of that wrapped up together, and you have a clever way of spreading propaganda without incriminating yourself.

Not that Lachesis is considering such a thing-- she may be willing to carry out the Eclipse Maiden's will through whatever means possible, but what witch gets anyone to listen to her if she's caught manipulating children?! That's a public relations disaster waiting to happen! Utterly ludicrous-- no, she won't be taking any cues from this little debacle.

"...Oh, child, you really shouldn't--"

And yet, as soon as she opens her mouth, the little witch is already tearing off into the streets, quickly ducking into an alleyway, the only indicator of where he ventures being the sanguine squeaking of his blood-drenched boots. Lachesis blinks for a moment, casting one last contemplative glance at the spilled bucket of blood on the ground, before she lets out a heavy sigh and starts wandering along after him, following the chorus of squeaking all the way.

The blood-bound half-footprints lead her along into the depths of the city, through the shadows cast by noontime and sandstone-- there is a comfort in it, in wandering through the places light hesitates to settle, and yet she cannot dawdle. She (begrudgingly) has a mystery to sort out, after all-- and so she must continue, following the traces of red until she slips into a network of alleys, pausing behind the corner of one of the buildings as soon as she catches sight of the little witch again, standing in the alleyway and clearly waiting.

Now, it's just a matter of finding out who he's waiting for.

Where before he seemed so hyper in the face of absurdity, the little witch that now stands, fidgeting about in the darkness, is a complex of nerves. He stands stiff and awkward, constantly looking about (and yet not seeing Lachesis, unobservant he is) for whomever he awaits. Such is the scope of his apparent fear that he begins to practice his breathing: in and out, slowly and unsteady. It's a strange comparison that would have him anxious here, and calm before...

He's whispering something to himself. "Please don't be mad, please don't be mad, please don't be mad, please don't be mad,"

At the sound of footfalls (not Lachesis', but coming from down the alley's other end), he shoots straight up again, standing at attention as three shadows fall stretch over him, cast by shadowy silhouettes at the alley's edge.

One of them steps forward. "Is it done?"

If the boy is making any attempt to hide his apprehension, he's making a poor display. Drawing in a stuttering breath he speaks as if he's about to burst into tears. "I-I'm sorry! I did most of them, but..."

Another steps forward, this figure possessing an arrogant and indignant stride along with a feminine voice. "But what?!"

He flinches at the sound of her voice, as if in pain, then casts his eye downward. "I'm sorry... I-I..." He shuts his eye tight, squeezing out a tear. "I s-spilled the paint! I didn't mean to..."

Among the figures, a unanimous groaning rings down the alley. Their growls mark their discontentment.

"Lousy bastard! Do you have any idea how difficult it was to collect that stuff?!"

He doesn't answer, but his every stifled sob is audible.

It's only then that the third figure, silent all this time, steps forward calmly. "No matter." His voice is rough and wisened, like sandpaper. And then, at the end of the shadowy appendage that stretches from his side, a serrated knife glimmers. "We may replenish it here."

All three step forward, their shadows stretching long until their umbra contains the child's face -- the face of fear.

It is hardly as if Lachesis has known the little witch in the alley for very long-- really, she only just ran into the little guy, and maybe five minutes of face-to-face conversation is hardly enough to become fully familiarized with what a person is usually like. But oh, there's a clear difference in the child from moments ago and the little witch now-- the sunlight in his eye is eerily dim, his soft, youthful face the very portrait of fear as one of the cloaked figures advances forward, the curve of steel glittering silver in their hand.

It's very clear what this is about to turn into, clear that the trio standing in the alley have some allegiance with some organization devoid of morals, and... well, Lachesis isn't about to stand by and let a child get butchered before her eyes.

There's an eerie glint in her vermilion eyes as she steps out of the shadows, Bella and Donna rearing to life, birdlike chittering erupting from their steel tips as their mistress moves forward, veiled in the comforting shroud of the shadows. The cloaked figures pause in place, the knife still shining where it remains in mid-air. There's no subtlety in the way she moves, no fear in her stride, spine straight and shoulders squared, claws glinting beneath filtered sunlight as she idly twirls a strand of hair between her fingertips.

"Dear me, what in Charon seems to be going on out here?" she hums, an insouciant quality to her voice as she looks the cloaked figures over-- it's almost as though she's pretending she doesn't notice the serrated edges of the knife, pretending she isn't aware of the danger. "My, my, you wouldn't be threatening a child, would you?"

"Piss off, lady," one of the men says, voice laced with venom. "This doesn't involve you."

"Oh, it very much does," Lachesis is quick to say, her eyes gleaming too bright, too red. "You wouldn't wish for this to get ugly, would you?"

The man glances over at his companions, annoyance and disbelief plain to see in his body language-- oh, he clearly doesn't take her for any sort of threat. The little trio likely sees some strange woman overdressed for a fight, the kind of lady incapable of doing any kind of actual defense-- and that is their mistake.

They make no effort at further conversation, the armed man lunging forward to plunge the knife into the little witch-- and Bella is quick to spring to life as Lachesis dives between man and child, steel tip sending the blade flying. [1] The man stumbles back, clearly not having expected her to be capable of diving in, but she gives him no time to muse over it-- she lurches forward, silver claws bared, more monster than woman as she rakes the sharp weapon across his chest, piercing through fabric and skin alike, sending him falling back to the earth.

She gives him no respite.

She gives him no chance to retaliate.

"Look away, little witch," she whispers as she bares her claws again, voice low, hungry for something she cannot name. "Just look away."

It's best, after all, that a child doesn't see all of what happens next.

---

[1] - Bella (Dancing Chain) hit prevention

He'd been ready -- not prepared, but awaiting the end. Who knows how much understanding the even has of death; perhaps he simply feared the knife cutting through his flesh, anticipating it like the prick of a needle. But he was afraid, all the same.

And then he heard that voice whose air is so seducing, and yet so blasé. He looks to her figure in the darkness; even as a silhouette, one can see her curves, whereas the others' figures are made amorphous by their cloaks. It's as if she has nothing she wishes to hide -- no reason to hide. And in stepping forward so brazenly, she commands a fierce presence.

"M-Ms. Calyptra...?" he whispers, voice still shaken and weak.

By the time he looks back to the robed man, they've already stepped forward. And in the time it takes for him to blink his one golden eye, steel has clashed with brilliant, terrifying gleams. And before he has even a moment to process what happened, scarlet drops are dancing through the air, right in front of him. It's a display of graceful savagery beyond anything he's ever witnessed. He should be afraid, if he weren't so mesmerized by the beauty in the woman's brutality.

She tells him to look away, and does so with a tone that he hasn't the will to refuse. He shuts his one eye tightly, waiting and listening...

Violence was not always Lachesis Calyptra’s first language.

Once upon a time, it had been song– an operatic aria, a sonata, any melody she could take upon her tongue, more adept with what she could sing than what she could speak. And oh, everyone and anyone knew it, too, whether they were noble-born or street-dwellers; she didn’t discriminate when it came to an audience, after all. Their love was universal, transcending any barrier that human hands could forge, and she had reveled in it.

She no longer remembers when screaming became the backdrop of her life instead, when the voice of the tenor drifted away in favor of the cries of the damned, when the swell of music melted away for good. And as she tears into the man beneath her with shining claws, Bella and Donna crooning in approval as they peer over her shoulder, hears the footsteps of his allies fall silent, she hardly cares– there is something soothing about this, about the sound before silence, about blood, about death, about becoming reacquainted with a human’s body, about the way this stranger’s allies turn and run down the alley, leaving nothing behind but dust and sand and their companion’s corpse-to-be.

Lachesis does not know when everything changed as it did, but as the last breath spills from between this body’s lips, any vestiges of concern over it melt away, gone with the faint wind that sings between the tight-knit buildings.

She rises to her feet, then, adjusting her hat, adjusting her dress, before she shoots a smile back at the child standing behind her.

“Well, now,” she tsk-tsks, fluttering her fingers, letting blood drip down silver claws. “I doubt you’ll find any trouble with them again, little witch. Are you alright?”

Sounds resound past Cashmere like flying arrows -- sounds of the like that he's never dreamed of. It's like hearing a new song, wherein all the strangeness touches parts of the mind not yet accustomed and which have yet to decide what it all means. Does it speak to him? Should it? Is it good, is it bad? There are sounds among them that certainly provoke very dire feelings within him: the cries, and the keening... and the gurgling. It's all so very alien.

And then there was silence. The last note, rattling from a dissected throat as terrified footfalls grow more distant, decrescendos until there is nothing at all.

Is it time for him to open his eye? Is it okay now? He hears the clack of heels approaching. Miss Calyptra was wearing heels, wasn't she? He isn't sure; fear has a way of muddling even the simplest thoughts.

But it's the most unlikely of sounds that becalms him -- a sound which should be terrifying in any other place or time. It's the singing of sliding blades, which can only be the witch's wicked claws.

Cashmere's eye flutters open to behold the bloodstained saintess. He catches only a glimpse of what remains of the man; fortunate, likely. But even if the cadaver were in a clearer light, the figure before him is far more enthralling. What he now knows to be blood covers her figures, her feminine curves, and yet she wears the stains as if they were jewelry. In the shade of her hat, eyes gleam and a smile curves along her imperfectionless face. The ribbons behind her crane and nip like hounds for their mistress. She's so utterly unbothered by what she's just done; not a single cut has flawed her skin, and her expression would hint that this has all somehow brought her even greater joy than she possessed before.

Her claws don't glint like they did before, as they flitter and flutter. Crimson does not gleam like silver.

“Well, now. I doubt you’ll find any trouble with them again, little witch. Are you alright?"

Does she realize how tormenting this question is? Is that why her expression is so unapologetically sadistic? Cashmere is too stunned; still, his mind struggles to process everything that just happened. Lachesis is so impossibly beautiful, elegant even in her bloodshed. The crimson stains suit the witch so well that Cashmere can hardly remember the time that the silks were unblemished. Somehow, it isn't quite fear that he feels. And yet...

"I... I-..." He struggles to form even a single word as he burns in the witch's infernal gaze. She did it so naturally, as if it were so common that she knew the words by heart. Is this ordinary for witches? Is this something that Cashmere will have to learn, to deal so casually with brutality? He doesn't know. But he does know something.

Tears begin to poor from the one, golden eye.

"I was supposed to paint... And I couldn't even do that..." The salty tears leave a single trail down his cheek, and to his jaw, before falling with drip-drops to the sandstone ground. His voice is as brittle as cracked glass "And they got mad... And you had to save me... I couldn't do anything!"

He brings a sleeve to his face, to wipe away the tear and to hide his shame.

"I'm a bad witch!"

There are a lot of reactions Lachesis has come to expect from those who witness unspeakable violence.

Horror is usually the first— wide eyes, lips parted around the beginnings of a scream or denial or any words they can manage in the throes of fear, their whole body frozen between countless potential responses to what they’ve witnessed. Disgust isn’t uncommon, either, and really, she can hardly blame anyone for that— blood and viscera belong inside the body, after all. She can’t say she’s especially fond of the cleanup that comes with cruelty herself. Either way, she’s accustomed to it— to disgust, to terror, to anger, to tearful babbling about the worth of a life, so on and so forth.

She expects any of those, especially from a child— she does not expect him to hone in on the task he’d been made to do and his failure to complete it and devolve into a spiral of despondent self-critique, young voice trembling, face distorted in deep sorrow as tears sparkle to life in his eyes, on his cheeks–

Oh, Gods above. She’s going to have to comfort a weeping child, isn’t she?

For a moment, Lachesis hesitates– it isn’t as though she can set a hand against his shoulder and offer a soothing touch, not when the silvery talon rings adorning her fingers are still rust-dull with lifewater. Bella and Donna offer little in the way of comfort as well; it takes all she has to keep them tame in polite company or high society, all she has to quell their quiet thirst for combat. Oh, and for all her love of the light, she has no magic at her fingertips to ease his tears or soothe his despair; there is no spell in her arsenal that could soothe his broken weeping.

Well, then– all that leaves as an option is… her words, unaided by physical contact or the divine touch of a god. It’s hardly as though Lachesis is terrible with chatter, of course; she’s wrapped nobles and common men alike around her finger with the deft weaving of speech before, made them forget their doubts before they can spring to life. It is merely that she is… unaccustomed to using her words to soothe.

But comfort and manipulation go hand in hand; is soothing the soul not the same as manipulating one’s worldview?

“Ah,” she begins, clearing her throat as she kneels down to meet the child’s line of sight. “...you need not weep, child. You have done nothing wrong at all– those brutes were taking advantage of your willingness to offer your aid. You’re a good witch, being so willing to help them– they are the wrong ones for wishing to hurt you so.”

The words flow easier than she expects, an old ghost of something clinging to her tongue.

“Dry your eyes, child,” Lachesis says softly, vermillion eyes glinting in the filtered shards of sunlight. “Don’t weep. There is no need.”

Words of honey and velvet tone wash over quivering shoulders, like oil over blood. Her closeness brings a warmth, suffusing, and her fable to the child's ears. And with a fable so illustrious... The silk that the Mothlight Maiden spins could snare a miser's gold or a predator's hard-won quarry, and draw them out delicately and unchallenged. A promise, speaking to deep and hidden desires; a little give, and all can be taken.

But this is different. Where there should be that succumbing, or at least resistance, there is neither. The flow of tears goes unfettered, without as much as an objectionary ripple. There is no promise; there is no give or take. Such words cannot make a person what they are not, and little Cashmere is despondent.

And so he continues to weep, little sobs escaping through cotton and through flesh and then floating dreamlikely out the alley, filling the otherwise-silence. With the rim of the hat lowly obscuring his little face and wails leaving his voice in tatters, he mourns and weeps and beloathes.

...Until, suddenly. He falls forward. Or at least, that's what seems to happen at first; but as the little witch wraps his arms around Lachesis and buries his head into her shoulder, it becomes clear that he'd done so with intent -- and with yearning. Little cotton sleeves swish across her skin as he holds her as tight as his little arms allow. It's a hug: earnest, innocent, desperate, sorrowful, youthful, foolish and warm. And then it ends.

"Sorry!" he yelps with sudden self-awareness, leaping back. Face uncovered, his reddened eye can be seen, wide and confused at himself. With his hands together, the wrestling of his fingers displays the scrambling debate in his own mind for many moments before he can gather words. "I, I... Um... Thank you."

He doesn't meet her eyes; his is downcast, though still shimmering in the feeble sunlight that does venture here. His embarrassment is thinly veiled, if he's intending to hide it all; and either way, the awkwardness has left him in silence. Silence -- until he looks down enough to see his own tunic.

"Oh! Oh my goodness!" Having had his eye shut for so long, weeping, his hug had been a blind attack -- and a foolish one at that. Only now that it's done can he see the consequences, as much of the blood that had soaked the older witch's clothes now does the same to the littler one's. In appearance, it's little different from the blood that'd already stained him, but knowing the truth has a way of evoking new emotions. He panics like an academy student realizing their tardiness. "I-I-I have to wash my clothes! Um... Thank you for everything, Ms. Calyptra! I-... I hope..."

He doesn't finish that last comment, though it's clear that he gives it great (if naive) thought. Instead, he simply turns and flees, leaving a new trail of bloody bootprints into the deeper shadows of the alley.

Children are strange and impossible little things.

At such a young age and small size, everything in the world feels impossibly big– the mountains, the boundless sands of the desert, the sky with all its swirling clouds and brilliant colors and pinpricks of stars sewn through it, all infinite and incomprehensible to such a young mind. Even the smaller, reachable things feel vast when you’re so small– the hands that hold yours, the gravity of your problems, the emotions that thrum to life in your tiny, fast-beating heart. How can something so delicate shoulder what must be the end of the world? How can it hold heaven or hell within it and expect to beat gently?

Thus, Lachesis is not surprised when the child continues to weep, tears gleaming like crystals in the shadowed light as they stream down his youthful face, his golden eye reddened, wails falling from his mouth with all the consistency of song. It is expected– consolation alone is not enough to stop a weeping child.

What does surprise her is what he does in the midst of the pitiful weeping–

throw his little arms around her and sob into her shoulder, clinging to her for comfort like a ship clings to its anchor in a storm.

…

…..

…Oh, Gods, what does she do in this situation?

Everything about this is foreign– she has welcomed hugs before from acquaintances, both congratulatory and in greeting, but never in comfort, and never from one so young and fragile. And now his tears wet the fabric of her dress, and she knows it annoys her, but somehow it feels inappropriate to duck back or to complain, so she refrains. For a strange and almost terrifying moment, Lady Lachesis Calyptra does not know what to do, so she does nothing.

And then she lifts her arms in a slow movement, stiltedly twining them around the child crying into her shoulder, and she gently pats his back, careful to mind her steel, scarlet-stained claws– those cries will only worsen if they pierce fabric and flesh. She must be cautious. This calls for caution.

“There, there, little witch,” she whispers. “It will all be alright. Dry your tears.”

(On something other than this dress, she hopes.)

It does not take long for the child to pull away, clearly embarrassed, though she’s quick to shake her head when he apologizes, letting the silence settle between them. What more can she say, after all? She can carry on faux conversations with ease, drag small talk and weave it into intel if she’s given the time, but easing the trauma of a child is an insurmountable task, especially for one who doesn’t seem to process he’s done nothing wrong in this equation. She’s content to conjure up a goodbye, already thinking of what to say–

And that’s when the little witch sparks back to life, panicking over the scarlet staining his garments, and he dashes off into the alleyway with a half-formed final word.

“I– wait, child–”

But he’s already gone, disappeared into the shadows of the alley, his little blood-stained footprints the last bit of proof of where he’s going and where he’s been.

She never did get his name.