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Confutatis moves silently and slowly, towards the border of the hills tossed by the wind and the barren gray-and-white-tipped mountains. Since Seele's and Eris' stubborn refusal of her, and all she had to offer, she had disappeared from the dismal regions of the frozen swamp, heading north and keeping a careful eye on the child that grew and matured inside the confines of the egg. She carried it inside her mouth, checking it thoroughly for signs of damage, but it appeared her acid had no effect on the diamond-like shell. It had fared well, and with any hope the durability of the egg would transfer into the kitsune. Until now; for it was hatching.
It is hatching.
She watches in oblivious fascination as the charcoal egg rocks back and forth, the shell gleaming in the dull light. A low, resounding crack splits the air as a fissure runs along the obsidian, black on black. Yellow drips from within, pale pearls coalescing on the sharp red-tinged fracture. Reaching out almost delicately, the mare's teeth close around the shell, her muzzle wagging slowly back and forth, shaking the egg. Within, the yolk is sloshing around, the life fluids of which nurtured the little something during all its early weeks slowly beginning to spill out over the black earth as the tiny child pushes against its restraints.
A cruel jagged smile lights her cracked lips, a savage grin, a malicious and feral baring of yellowed teeth.
It slops out of the egg ungracefully, a small and weak child, pathetic and mewling. Just as she, it is charcoal, toned with the miserable grays of soot and ash, with a fleck of white upon its chest. It's face is little more than a scrunched up ball of fat flesh and thick folds of black fur, it's ears nubs on it's head; it is nothing more than a fat worm, with stubby legs and a tiny tail, claws scarce. Pathetic, she thinks, her jaws opening, maw expanding, prepared to swallow the useless gift. A drop of sizzling acid falls from her calloused mouth, a hot tear of burning poison, of which falls upon the narrow head of the squirming creature. She watches in silence as it squeaks piteously, crying out weakly, reminding the heartless monstrosity of a mare of her own birth, her own descent into shadow.
Flickering into life comes the presence of it, and Confutatis' lips curl in disdain and it's weakness; but her eyes are curious, almost admiring, at the ardent ferocity for life burning hot and heavy in the kitsune's heart.
She whispers unaudibly, and picks up the child swiftly, placing it upon her wide back. It screeches as her poison jaws close down on soft flesh, but there is no pity nor remorse in the mare's heart. The mongrel is lucky enough to live another few hours, with this bitch slowly connecting their minds; the kitsune is blessed to live with scars instead of death.
Within the next two hours, they reach the border of the Foothills, the distant clamor of the waterfall faint in her ears. The sun descends on its path, a pale eye, turning the world into a palette of pale golds and leafy greens, the time before sunset but when the shadows grow long.
On the border she waits for someone to meet her.
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[O] the weak and the strong, the teeth and the victim
