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Was, at long last, luck on her side? No- not luck, a word she abhors- but Tyradon, a stallion to turn the tides with his verdant, emerald DRAGON. How excited she was for the prospects of their tyrannical futures, an elation which tumbled through her corrupt veins and pounded in the bellows of her shriveled black heart; because finally it was beginning, the future she had always hunted for with dire ambition, but this time, it would be r e a l and she would not conquer alone but with a warmonger beside her, a stallion with fire in his eyes and a baritone voice. She ached at the very thought of their damning destiny; she was vicious in her imaginations of a different world, one ruled by her and Tyradon the night king. Death to those who had scorned her! To Seele, to Circuta, to the precious Asylum- they would DIE, at her hooves, and she would lick the juices from their bloody HEARTS.
She cradled revenge in her revolting bloodstream, carried it with her as a mother would precious child; she crooned to it at night, stroked it during the day, let it flower and fester in the greed of her midnight chest; and it would not be for nothing!
They slither into the caverns at night, without words exchanged. Of judgement she withheld, but she was filled with a deepening longing for Tyradon's help in what she pursued relentlessly- what little they had exchanged when she first stumbled across this PRIZE made her cocksure confident he would be willing to aid her, if not lead himself. Her heart gave a little throb; she was enthralled with the idea, in love with the hope they might just rule (even if together) and her mind ran wild with plans and hopes and ideas. Lady Death; Queen of Skulls; her thoughts ran rampant with titles to hold, to wave over Clownface's head; would there be a Monster, a Dragon King, a Midnight Lord with her as well? Amber eye darts to Tyradon, whom she feels no need to nickname- for he is the ultimatum, and she is convinced of his g r e a t n e s s.
There is a rumble and a roar ahead, which she likens to the future sound of the crowds screaming for their royal majesties, and they enter to a cave sparkling in light of a waterfall.
Mongrel snarls at her heels.
"I am Confutatis," she exhales wickedly, carved pumpkin leer curling at her lips. "Child of demons, as you so acutely put it; and a woman who intends to continue with the family line of work." There is a cock of her head, a singular hum in her chest. Does she dare depart with the knowledge of her failures, and the hopes he will prove better than her in combat? And she does; for hope the warbringer, the not-so-valiant paladin will show himself as a companion to her. "I have tried three times to secure a herdland, and thwarted thrice. Those who have prevented me come with the names Illynx, Apollo, and the despicable Asylum, a group of mongrels made up of inferior intellects... nonetheless, they have defeated me. It is not my intention to lose again to a medic and a group of half-witted insanities; but what plans are necessary to concoct, I am unsure of, which is why I am desiring of your input... your help in leadership, for I feel we are k i n d r e d spirits."
CONFUTATIS
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