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There is that familiar, sinister tilt to her head, and her skin crawls, shuddering over knotted muscle and tense sinew. She glories in the magnificence of their forceful presence, revels in the wonder of their dominating union; it seethes beneath the surface of heinously scarred skin, a lusty frenzy of excitement and elation. Eyes glitter and gleam vindictively, teeth bare in wild grin before she calms her eccentric ego with a ragged inhale; it would not do to drive Tyradon, her saving grace, away if he thought her a raving madwoman. Spittle drips from her lips, bubbling acidic foam that dribbles onto the soil, hissing and spitting mightily as her tail lashes over her hips, and she sinks back away from him, dancing ever so slightly on her feet.
The stallion mutters, words melting seamlessly together, and her ears pivot forth to catch sound of his rumbling voice. There is a whooping sensation in her stomach- euphoria and ecstasy.
FINALLY! Finally; an equal, a lord, an uncrowned king- she would remedy the loss of his tarnished crown, and they would ascend to the heavens, become gods and deities as Oblivion was to small-minded mortals. She can taste it, that sweet honey of oncoming victory, that overpowers the sickly taste of acid in her mouth; they would be hailed as emperors and monarchs, the true leaders of HELOVIA! He speaks quietly, in belief and not confidence, but simplicity; casually of what she had so hungrily chased for the entirety of her long life; of kingdoms, domination, counties and nations, monarchies and sovereignty.
"The herds disbanded when the darkness and the undead swept through the land," she says, her voice a canyon of wild depth. "There were four: the Aurora Basin, the Dragon Throat, the Windtossed Foothills, and the World's Edge. Each were led by one or two, king or queen; Illynx, of the Basin, and the compatriot I know not the name of; Midas and Gaucho, who I have never met in person; the Foothills, led by the slut Phaedra and the foul medic Apollo; and of the Edge, I know nothing, only that the herd that resides is perilous to their enemies."
Nostrils widen as she exhales. Mongrel twines around her forelegs, perusing memories of blood and gore on a stormy night.
"I took the Asylum as brothers and sisters, but they deserted me in my time of need, and I give no alliance to such filth as them." The demon daughter sneers, not directed to Tyradon; for she is lost in cruel memory and devilish imaginations. "The alliances remain even without the herds, albeit fractured. I do not know if the same leaders will rise from this worm's hole... but I know many of the Helovians are weak. There are few, if any, like us; most are content to act as paladins and knights, cherished guardians of the innocent, protectors of the weak, vanquishers of the proud." The contempt is thick in her voice, loud in her eyes. "You could try and 'recruit', but I doubt we will have luck with that. If necessary, I say we steal and blackmail as necessary to get our way... but we will need a backbone of warriors loyal to make sure we can push through with our ambitions."
CONFUTATIS
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