The hive, a patch of dirt described as macabre by those who neighbored its borders. Zelena had offered it, a kind gesture, albeit not done out of the goodness of her heart. The leech folk, alien abominations, had begun assembling a grand hive. A central metropolis and breeding group to mark the start of a new regime. Unfortunately for these parasites, the lioness had deemed them unfit for salvation. Their lead, Nysoesa, had insulted her and burned too many bridges. Valerna, Zelena, and Florentina both desired her species' swift eradication. The leaders of the other nations hadn't said so out loud; it was implied. Despite the defiled amassing, the leaders omitted including these grotesque creatures in their plan. The Jezebel, however, would ensure they'd be put to good use. The leeches went about their mundane routines. The community toiled as one to build their great cacoon of a metropolis. Nysoesa sat on her throne, conniving in the shadows as she prepared her brood for an imminent invasion. Samara had done the math enough to know they'd eventually breed beyond control and sweep across the realms. A future she sought to circumvent by showing an ounce of initiative. The skies above the city changed, and a heavy wind swept across the blackened land. The overcast film assembled into a singular mass as flashes of lightning pulsated its violent light. Unbeknownst to them, concealed behind that film was the grand jewel of the lioness. A flying fortress that masked itself as it silently hovered closer to the city. Underneath its golden surface, a shadow had been cast. Its weight and reach consumed the totality of their hive. The citizens stared into the heavens, bewildered by this abnormal weather. The guards ran through the streets like a rat in a maze. They were oblivious to the topaz eyes that studied them from on high. Samara kept a stoic expression as she sipped from her wine glass. The crimson menace stood in the center of a massive ritualistic circle. The room was surrounded by gears and other such technological elements. The whizzing of those gear and hissing of exhaust mingled with the humming of the crystals. The artificial orchestra was a grand symphony that heralded Samara's inescapable wrath. Pandemonium usurped order as that cloud stopped its movements and loitered above the municipality. Nysoesa stepped onto the balcony by the throne room and gazed into the swirling ominous brume. The crimson menace smirked as she reached out her hand and grasped a spherical crystal. The battery was secured on top of a pedestal that was hollow and fed into a grand reservoir. The confusion below was overpowered by an ear-piercing shriek. Nysoesa covered her ears as she hunched and gripped the railings. It was then she heard a voice, one all too familiar. "I want you to know failure, to taste utter defeat. And that it is I who brought the hammer down upon you. Fret not; your people will cease to exist. However, your body will be repurposed along with your energy. You'll serve something greater, an eternal empire. No need to thank me, for my kindness is boundless." The communication line fell silent as the storm funnel began to pulsate from the top. The light trailed downward as a high-pitched hum grew with each flaring of its glow. The cloud parted as a blinding light shot from the bottom of the egg. The rings spun horizontally as sparks of lightning danced between their gaps. The sheer energy rained on the city, atomizing the inhabitants as the beam drilled into the earth. A crater whose depths the eyes couldn't glimpse remained as the egg gradually descended and filled the newly fashioned docking station she had built. Samara finished her wine glass as she watched the magic the city held had been consumed. Crystals once dormant that lined the spherical room flickered to life. Each one had a life that had received the gift of ascension. A necessary evil, one she intended to use when the time came to face the defiled. Samara remained there, taking inventory and inspecting them as a great silence befell the hive. She had fulfilled her promise, it was now time to see if Zelena and the others would do the same...

Sarnai stretched out her arms, taking in the balmy sunlight that covered the sands. She'd been tracing her typical route in the hunt for the familiar spherical red fruit. She ambled to the tree that created its shade but was disheartened to see the apples still wearing their green coat. She knew this meant they weren't sweet, instead packing a sour punch. Not the flavor she was interested in selling. Running her hand along the bark of the tree, the debate of sitting down and relaxing or hunting for additional fruits warred in her head. If this tree isn't ready, the other plants probably aren't either. Such was the downside of only gathering in the vicinity of Ashtown. Defeated, she flopped onto her back beside the thin trunk of the tree comfortably on the cooler sand. Fruit trees were like natural caregivers, she thought. They provide food, hydration, and...shade! Despite being accustomed to the temperatures of the desert, taking a load off in the shade was always a welcome activity. She stared into the tree's crown, studying each ripening apple to see if any should be trimmed from the tree due to fungal infection or disease. They all looked fine, so she opted to rest for a while. Today wouldn't be a great harvest, but it wasn't a complete loss. She'd accumulated quite a bag full of peppers. She hadn't anticipated they'd matured this early but it was a pleasant surprise. Did they sell well? Well on their own as a snack, not really no. But she'd found some luck selling them to cooks and butchers. She personally didn't enjoy the punch of them, but it amused her how they grew in such different shapes and colors. A big perk of them was that they were packed with water. After resting for a couple of moments, she rolled to her feet and started off back to Ashtown, a fair hike.

Boss of a sheet for one hell of a baddie.

The relocation of her assets hadn't ensued without episode. The great exodus is merely the third to unfold within recent memory. And luckily for the Jezebel, the chieftain wasn't the sort to harbor grudges. The grievances of yesteryear were immaterial when contrasted against the prevailing threat. And while her seat at that table was currently tentative. The Jezebel was sure she'd substantiate her usefulness soon enough. These fresh pair of eyes allowed Samara to evaluate the dynasty's stability bereft of bias. Unlike most who inhabited the court, she wasn't blinded by their success. A commodity, while seemingly inconsequential, was deceptively high in value. And, given her expertise when it came to economics, she deemed herself an invaluable component of the regime. Such smugness would fleetingly merit her the skepticisms and ire of a few. A challenge that the lioness was more than willing to contend with. The giants of this wooded providence were a peculiar lot. Far be it from her to oppugn their customs, given she was a guest. No, she'd keep such idle opinions to herself while engaging with them. After all, only a fool would dispute their advancements as anything short of awe-inspiring. In actuality, Samara was a tad covetous. The yield that the spider had sown and reaped dwarfed the bovine's victories. No matter, she'd soon cull a bounty to designate as her. Samara grew tired of the nobility's inquisitions. That constant streaming of inquiries and suspicions, while warranted, was misplaced. Why would she seek to dismantle the only bastion left to her? What benefit could instilling such chaos offer the affluent heifer? Such inanity was a waste of her time and skillsets. No matter, she had weathered their disdain and arose against the odds. And whether or not the leaders of the realm admitted it. They couldn't deny the reward for accepting her brilliance. Confidently, the crimson menace sashayed through the halls of the palace. Their trophies and trinkets had caught her eye. However, amidst their displays stood an awkward absence of gold. No doubt they fancied their bone, but skeletal material alone wouldn't suffice for fueling their economy. Ostensibly, they might appear indestructible. Nonetheless, Samara possessed enough acumen to spot their weakness. And rather than enlighten them, she'd use their ignorance to solidify her position within this fellowship. The Jezebel smiled, her mind concocting a scheme. And while perhaps a tidbit solipsistic of her. Samara understood that her triumphs partially profited the collective. And without them, she was indeed vulnerable. Nevertheless, such aspirations would be quelled. Well, at least for the time being. The din of her heels colliding against the floor caromed off the walls. And rather audaciously, instead of donning their habiliment. The lioness instead opted to bedeck herself in familiar threads. The partially translucent black attire hugged her voluptuary body along with the gold embroidery she so fancied. Just because she had bowed to the spider didn't imply she'd forsake the customs she had come to adopt. A subtle hint of defiance, albeit one she suspected Valerna had anticipated. No matter. The Jezebel had matters to attend to. For beyond this palace was a man she had formerly known. Watari Devante. Or, as she had overheard, he adopted the moniker of Jorgenskull. A curious move, one she might employ to disseminate seeds of animosity between the pup and his mother. Wordlessly, she'd continue her little stroll. The eyes of the sentries, their judgmental gazes, held no authority over her. Foolishly, they assumed the appearance of fidelity implied she had been conquered. What planks. So what if their queen sat on the throne? Did they believe such a thing presented them power over her? What utter hogwash. The lioness may appear muzzled, but her fangs and claws were at the ready to strike should she need to. Eventually, Samara exited the center of power and strutted down the long and white roads of the boneyard. She passed from the shade of those pyramids and back into the light of the sols. And, despite being smaller in stature, the reach of her shadow evoked a few to express some fear. The Jezebel wasn't insulted. No, she found it to be flattering. To have resisted so much marring and to surface with enough gravity left to compel a few to writhe 'neath her heel was sanguinary. Inebriating to the point that it inspired a simper across her claret face. Ultimately, she'd arrive at her destination—one of many mega structures whose peaks rivaled the towering trees of the jungle. And, judging by the banners attached to the exterior walls, this must have been Watari's little nest. Calmly, the temptress strode beyond the threshold and into the fox's den. Matsumota had been loitering around the main foyer. The khan, upon glimpsing the Jezebel, would extend a nod. A gesticulation met with a similar response. The pair now moved as one, where they would be escorted under armed guards into a meeting room. Matsumota would sit on one of the chairs, kicking her dirty sandals up and plopping them onto a long table. Samara, on the other hand, wasn't keen on relaxing. Despite her compromising position, she had to air confidence. And so, she stood by the window—her back facing the door as those golden eyes studied the distant treeline. The cacophony of the wilds was different. And even from this far, Samara's knife ears could detect the psithurism caused by the wind. The desert was a quiet place. Not surprising, given its hostile environment. Nonetheless, the crimson menace understood that occasionally the most captivating of veneers was the deadliest camouflage within nature. After all, wasn't she a prime example? Many would presume her to be submissive. Her curves, former vocation as an exotic dancer, and choice of garment further facilitated such erroneous deductions. Samara's spaded tail swayed, eventually coiling around her wide hips. The flowing skirt that obfuscated her plump posterior fluttered within the wind. The jewelry of gold that secured her ashen mane together clanked against one another. And while concealed from anyone that might enter. The bovinite smirked devilishly. Her heart drummed as she was overwhelmed by the prospect of what sort of future she could make here. Providentially for her, Samara had mastered control over her body language. A feat that would hopefully ensure Watari would remain none the wiser. And if he should gloat, Samara would suffer it. Only to reveal in due time that despite her appearance, her claws were as long and sharp as the fox's. And that there were few things as dangerous as a cornered predator.

Entropy couldn't be thwarted; its putrid grasp may only be deferred. It was this truth that steered the crimson menace. A realization that the clock was always ticking. And while the commoners went about their days oblivious of that imminent armageddon, Samara felt inclined to be proactive against the inescapable twilight. Most sovereigns sought to advance their temporal pursuances, operating under the fallacy that is world dominion. What inanity, a goal that, even if realized, would mean little when the clock strikes midnight. The conquest of the desert was merely a step up the ladder, its subjugation a modest feat that secured nothing but additional time. Time, if not appropriately managed, would substantiate itself of little significance. However, notwithstanding the jezebel's prowess and influence, she couldn't achieve her objectives alone. And so Samara sought to procure partnerships from the denizens of this blighted wasteland and put into place a system. This mode would divide the wheat from the chaff, a systemization that facilitated the cream of the crop to lord over their lesser brethren. She knew many would dispute the soundness of her designs. And anathematize it all they wish; one need only gawk back into the past to see the imbecility inherent to such naysayers. If they were to claw themselves out of this cycle of ruination, meritocracy would function as their only lifeline. And while morally dubious, her reign will spark the embers necessary to fuel their ascent. The lioness had a grand vision, a unique ideal that few could understand if uttered aloud. There was one true nemesis in Samara's prudent mind, the same scourge that eradicated countless histories before. A swelling squall that scoured the universe clean, usurping all that was while scrubbing the macrocosm of any testimonials. And it was this death that horrified her the most. Another cycle in which her deeds faded into oblivion while she was incarcerated and forced to wait in the darkness. What was her calling? What was it that stoked the aspirations of this enchantress? The answer was simple, the defying of that undying pattern. She stood there, peeking out from the terrace of the chateau. Those jewels of topaz took in how much Anzhela had achieved under her investments. These bees were an industrious race, constantly toiling away toward the next goal in their ever-growing checklist. Their work ethic was admirable, quickly propelling them to new zeniths and more dangerously within the sphinx's sights. Their polygamous liaison was titillating, not just to wanton hankerings, but more to the plethron of potentialities seeded 'neath the veneer. And the longer she studied their bustling municipality, the more prominent her bosom inflated with dignity. This city of "gold" and waterfalls stood as a gospel to what few could accomplish if those lesser labored under their yoke. This bovinite would stretch out her hand, grasping that banister as her talons of gold enveloped the metallic bar. The binary suns hung overhead, casting down their luster and heat onto the desert. The tops of the various buildings strewn throughout the metropolis appeared to shimmer, radiating like a twinkling star. The din of a lively city brought solace to the exhausted ruler, inspiring the claret beauty to simper. The mistress hadn't arrived here to admire the vista but to discuss business with the matriarch of this hive. Nevertheless, this didn't exclude the tantalizing prospect of commingling business with pleasure. And so, rather smugly and vainly, she draped her hedonistic sculpture with the finest threads of the land. Samara bedecked herself in a black and translucent habiliment, with gold flakes emulating the stars across an evening firmament. Upon her forehead sat a crescent marking, while other precious metals in the form of jewelry adhered across that voluptuary figure. The jezebel's feet were shielded by stone heels, dark and reflective as obsidian. And creeping up from the base of that glorious footwear was a tide of gold appearing like that of grains of sands expelled up by the wind. The queen snickered, pouring herself a glass of wine with that free hand. All the while, she relaxed under the crooning of birds lured to this city due to their success. The redolence of that libation of choice teased her nostrils. The temptress grinned as she swiveled the fermented berry juice within that glass. Such worldly amenities were infrequent and, whenever savored, were done so with tremendous appreciation. Samara supped from that glass, leaving behind the stains of her lipstick on its surface. Daintily, her fingers held the stem of that receptacle, once more circling the fluid inside as her spaded tail swayed from a feeling of endorsement. Nevertheless, even this inebriating juice failed to compare to the intoxication derived from their joint ventures. And whatever was behind this summons, be it a status report or discussing plans. The heifer was convinced it would end pleasantly. There were few as dependable, competent, and beguiling as the foreigner that she shared her bed with some nights. And rather than chafe over what was to transpire, she'd unwind and await her playthings entrance with a held breath.

No one knows where it originated, but one thing remains true. The mist which has engulfed the realm functions as yet another impediment pitted against the denizens of the desert. The harsh climate, foul monstrosities, and their internal struggles pale in comparison to that haze and what prowls within its film. From sunset to daybreak, the city of emerald finds itself blanketed by that fog. The people discover security behind their walls as every night they wait in fear for the morning to come. Those stationed on those defenses whisper of things shifting within that ethereal curtain—eyes glimmering through the veil with a rampant disdain few could describe. Whatever might stalk within that abominable pall terrified the hearts of lesser folk. Notwithstanding having felled many oppositions, things were still tucked from prying eyes that kept her up at night. The dread of the unknown, while primal, still presented itself as the source of distress. And while most might arise inclined to neglect that impending menace, Samara wasn't so content. Ever since the realms collapse and that ensuing bloodshed, the bovine trekked these dunes searching for answers. And while the precise nature of this peril might have eluded her sense, she wasn't oblivious to the certainty that is their plight. Call it instinct, the honed sixth sense of a seasoned vanquisher of filth. Either way, she found herself inspired to solicit after solutions, answers that might lead to the purging of this newfangled hazard. This wasteland never flowed with milk and honey—the drudgery of survival apparent in every facet of these cascading ridges of sand. Despite the facade of towering structures of white stone and emerald glass that glistened within the suns and the creature amenities they might inspire, the jezebel remained on edge. Those topaz eyes scanned the bustling streets. The unmistakable expression of despondency lingered across the smudged countenances of former constituents. The redolence of putrefaction dangled aloft this formerly grandiose municipality, a reminder of the inanity of endeavoring to quell one's lesser proclivities. Death, your name has become emerald, and your oracles the very masses that had unknowingly stoked the pyre of your indignation. Could it be her sermon had compromised her sagacity? The dogmatic and extreme proclamations yet another scar across an already disfigured psyche? Perhaps, however, when confronted with the pitiless nature of this rancours world. The certainty of that rhetoric made it a strenuous thing to disregard. The temptress loitered within the shadows of an alley, those pupils swerving off to the market district. Her eyes were beholding just how far they had fallen. No longer did they engage in mercantile with precious metals. Instead, the economy had retrogressed to that of bartering. A huff divorced itself from those lips as she located amusement that the gelatinous nobles that had once surfeited themselves on this providence were reduced to the common rabble. A great scouring, while delayed, couldn't be thwarted. Samara leaned against the wall, her hourglass shape bedecked in the blackened habiliment of stone. Segments of earthen plating were fastened across the exterior as her ample bosom remained visible. This sphinx stood within the littered alleyway, only for her arcane-tinged orbs to deviate up at the welkin. The suns would soon set. Evident by how that once cerulean atmosphere now transitioned more and more into an orange shade. Why had this machiavelli withdrawn herself from the sanctuary of the hive? While innocuous, the answer to such an inquisition could be surmised as a calling. Ever since depleting the Ashlandian volcano, the enigma felt magnetized to the planet itself. Like a heartbeat, its pulsations communicated to the bovine in ways she couldn't recount. This pull spurred her feet to make that voyage. Confidentially, she questioned the perspicuity of participating in such a trek. Thus far, she had encountered nothing and only found herself sickened by the scars of former conflicts. Samara had imagined what this collapse might look like, and while she intellectualized the racial division and the dearth of joy it might convey. She never accurately divined the destitution and anguish such a plummet might have rendered in its wake. Such introspections would be cast to the side as the dancer removed herself from brooding against that wall. Cooly, she turned and headed down that taut tunnel sandwiched between the buildings, only to emerge onto the adjoining street. The murmurs of the people reaching those knife ears, yet their acrimonies had verified themselves as nominal. The inane loquacities of ninnyhammers incapable of rationalizing what was to come. And while some might feel pity, Samara harbored nothing but abhorrence toward them. No, this baptism was crucial, a methodology by which they might learn from the imbecility of their ways. And it would be insensitive to meddle in their redemption. After all, through the sweat of their brow, they might bowdlerize the begrime of debauchery and come to recognize the necessity of her governance. To aid in such a trial would only cheapen it and result in a lesser lesson imparted. To be benevolent, she had to conquer her empathy and allow these berks to transcend on their own accord. Only then, when they rise to such alps through their exertions, might the product benefit the whole. For now, Samara would sashay down the sandy road, marveling at just how far they've tumbled from grace—vicariously culling erudition through their hell, in ways she'd never articulate publicly.

https://www.whitesandempire.com/samara-delfluent (https://www.verdantdynasty.com/samara-simplified) Samara Del'Fluent, Art is my own. Verdantrain is the password to view the sheet.