Seele, the clown girl, the Glassfox, appears, a necromancer, whisperer to the dead, with eyes of lustrous amber, the yellow of gold, the aureate of predatory eyes. What a pretty girl, all dressed up in her black suit and stoney mask, all soft flesh and unbruised sinew gone untouched by the savagery of battle for too long. Not a warlord anymore, but a girl, reduced to a petty shallow thing, hardly worth the effort of conquering and destroying. Why had she followed them, Confutatis wonders, amber eye glittering hungrily as she watches the mare draw nearer. Why had she sunk down to their pathetic level, become the unusual normal? She is not that- not a follower, peasant, commoner, smallperson. No, she was daughter of Oblivion, heiress to warlords, vain and vindictive woman of voluptuous hips and hard eyes, sister of a priestess of death.

She would not come back begging for forgivable, bequeathing their apology. No, she was of an iron heart clad in scarred armor, the bones of dead vanquishers on her shoulders, and she was invincible, a corrupt monster, a nefarious beast, a sinner and a hellion. Never would she fall, bow her head, forgive or forget. No, Confutatis would bide her time, gather her patience, until the day they forget; and then they would lie in their blood with their throats slit. Fuck them, fuck them all.

Seele volleys words at her, words more empty than her glass horn. The sooty equine bares her ivories, ears pinning to her skull, lips curling back in a gruesome grin, a horrific smile, a terrifying promise. Around her eyes, the skin tightens, a tiny sign of tension well overridden by her locked muscles. Doesn't she understand, this fool of a mare, that she shall not win the wolf over with vague insults and bitter sentences? Fools, pretty little birds singing their pretty little songs, not watching for the cat about to leap onto them. "Stop," she snaps, voice hoarse and grating. She shifts her weight, wincing at the pain of her healing wounds, but unafraid. "Do not hide the honesty of your word, Glassfox. I care not if you call me bitch to my face- dare to do so, but in my own language." Confutatis' voice takes on the tone of an egoistic commander, haughty and condescending. These are lowborn horses, despite their primping. Now she, she comes from a black bloodline hard and true that flows steady through her tainted veins.

Her amber eye is cold and dead as the corpses in the tepid swamp waters.

"Idiot," she growls, amber eye glittering cruel. "You are damned fools, and you will regret this day to the end of your years. I will not beg, nor plead; you are weak cunts who linger in the shadows, and you deserve nothing but to rot."

She did not look back.

She left them in the mists of the swamp with fury writ on her face.