Ears tip forward, curiosity pealing bright in her eyes, a sinister note of jovial companionship on the planes of her face; does he know Oblivion? He must have at least heard of her mighty father, the eater of d e a t h, the devourer of the living, the archangel. For there is recognition on Tyradon's face, burning black on black- mild inquisitiveness flickers within the empty cavity of her midnight chest, an avian-like tilt to her chiseled skull. "You have heard of him?" she asks cautiously. Surely he has not met him though? Confutatis did not know the fatal outcome of her father's war-mongering, did not know that he d i e d as a commoner would, but it nettled her to think of this behemoth meeting the DemonKing when she had been denied his luxuriously vile company.

Of other matters she offers no answer; the wild of his gaze chases over hip and curve, and she does not shake nor quiver as to proffer him something to look at. Her ears twist and slant back, wordless warning that she will not tolerate his ogling. As for his question, the hellion sneered, a cruel simper carved into the dark lines of her muzzle; as if she would answer such a question; as if one could not tell by the scars rippling over her coat and the raggedness of her audits and her clouded eye. "A thwarted Queen of Death, but I do my best at adumbration."

There is a hiss as her tail smacks over dark flanks, and a snarl of her mongrel creeping forward, vermilion eyes glistening in the shade.
Oh, he is angry, full of negligent malice and growing unease, a filthy film clouding his furious thoughts from her; she peers at him, a warning blossoming in the abysses of her labyrinthian mind; he had best not dare go there.

Corrupt indignation spreads across Confutatis' face, and the insolent smirk widens into a feral grin. She cannot help but feel elated at Tyradon's conviction, the elitist sentiment, in Her way, in His way. There is a kingly command in the rolling depths of his baritone voice (was he a lord? a warbound tyrant?) She is not consumed with thoughts of bearing children, nor do her thighs ache in such admirable presence; she leaves child-bearing and child-raising to her weakly sister, who serves better in foal labor than in battle, but Mongrel thinks. He thinks of death and blood and g o r e, of children raised by Death and Fire, a fickle wonder rising idle in the depths of his pious chest. Tail-tips twitch and he falls quiet, the yellow of craggy teeth hidden by folds of ebon skin. "You could be a king," she exhales, a ragged murmur which bends and folds in the air, a declaration of unknown heights- Confutatis, follow someone?

Or did she intend to simply ride on his fame, and claw him down from the throne when he Ascended?

"I will be," Confutatis grins, acid burning and sizzling at her foaming lips; "As of yet... the herds have decayed and shattered as the mice scurry to the safety of their holes in the dead soil. My interest, Tyradon, is in you surviving, for it would be a shame to see you fall to the undead." There is a shadow of something indecipherable in her eyes; a clouding of intentions, a scurrilous unhealthiness. "In Helovia, the feudal systems are ruined- but I intend to amend that; I intend to instill r e s p e c t of queens and kings, lords and ladies."