The night sky weeps in shadows and smoke for their stormsinger.

How brave.

She did not know how long she had been collapsed in the snow blanketing the Steppe. The shadows of unconsciousness have wrapped around her in rose vines, pricking her insides with their thorns. Calligo's dark fingers prod her in shadows, dragging her storm daughter from the grips of unknowing. And eventually, through the last of winter winds that whip around her, Aislinn manages to stand. A struggle.. but enough.

What is it you seek my love? A sense of purpose?

Through the starless darkness, she stumbles on weak legs. She seethes into the shadows, her anger a palpable beast despite the blood that stains the snow below her in dark crimson. Calligo's smoke cradles her ruined wing, her bruised body, as she meanders through the outlier of her home. Her Denocte. If only.. if only she could fly.. she would have been at home. But no.. that fucking bastard had ripped clean the bones under her skin. Her wing was the carnage of splintered bones and bloody feathers, all torn skin and dirt and snow stained red upon the mesh of what had once been one of her great appendages. Now, the plumes were shorn of their beauty where his teeth had marred her.

Solis' Warden had grounded the stormsinger and tied her to the damn earth; and she loathed him for it. Go fuck yourself, you sand sucking son of a bitch.

Now, the City of Starlight sprawls around her, pulsing in firelight and the cool kiss of new spring and revelry. From shadow to shadow she melts, a limping wraith who's blood dribbles behind her in a trail. The bright red of her lifeblood is stark against the sconces and pyres that burn, and what little snow has drifted along the walls. Her beloved crown city is bleak on this night — or is it early morning? She doesn't know. The stormsinger can only feel the waves of her hurricane fall flat with each drop that falls from her torn feathers. Her storm is gone; quieted, hushed, silenced. Only Calligo is with her now.

Her heart jumps as Castle Night rises above her at last. The muscles in her limbs ache, heavy and dragging down, down, down to the core of their earth. She sways, dangerously unsteady, as she barely crosses the threshold of the keep, before her legs give out from under her.

So what does the birdfetching bitch have to say?

"Some..someone," she croaks into the dark, sinking into the cold cold stones. "Please."

The darkness threatens to pull her under once more.