Mongrel's scheming thoughts press against hers; malignant dreams of vanquishing and fragile bones, of death clutching beating hearts. Again, she shakes her head, as if to rid herself of him, but to no avail; they are bonded, no matter her occasional hate of it. She builds sprawling castles and palaces between them, erecting walls to block him off, all cemented stone and brick, but still his beliefs and wants seep, insidious, squirming, poisoning each idea of rationality. Back she pushes— away— she demands of him, go away, but he cannot, will not; he presses and teases her with the tendrils of his magic, and her skull throbs with having to contain the emotions of entities both separate and unified. Ashen lips purse, disapproval and faint anger scrawled onto her vile face, and she casts her gaze back to the rotund woman she has come to devour speak with.

The curvaceous bay, only a year or two younger than Confutatis judging from her face, speaks up, bold and unquailing beneath the wickedness of the wolf's gaze; she likes that, and does love the mare's reply... even if it goes without a supplicant. Wait! There it comes, a declaration of sleeping with lions. Her vacant smile shifts in allegiance, from empty to something more sinisterly sincere. What is she? Griffin or wildcat, clever fox or... was she truly a lion? She could not be a wolf; the wolves were only of Oblivion's bloodline, descended from the king who mounted the world and fucked her until she had no more to give. Wolves were Confutatis and October, Öde and Veil;

"That is good to hear," she answers, "bravery is often sore-lacking in Helovians." Eyes narrow, sly gold and wily amber. "I am a wolf, descended from the blood of warlords, and that is my kitsune companion." Hooves shift as she moves her weight; she cocks a hind leg comfortably beneath her, letting her head sink a little. Ears shift out to side, relaxing- she is a war quean at rest.

Movement catches her gaze; her muscles tense, and she jerks in surprise. There are the hooves of the mare is a drifted pile of leaves (so she would assume); and something shifts from within it. A damp yellow head slithers free of the cozy nest, followed by a vaguely chubby body, looking somewhat wet. Nares widen; her expression is one of distaste and surprise. What is that? The harlot watches is crawl forth to the mare's hocks- and she cannot withhold her questions.

"I have never seen anything like that before... what is it?"