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He laughs, and while she does not share in his amusement out loud, she is festive and merry at the positive response! Yet the mirth was destined for a short life; what joy there is dies at his response. Toxic lips tug downwards into a scowl, for it sounds as if magic was stolen from him (the limitations of her imagination constrict her from the ideas of warlocks pillaging wizardry, rather turning to focus on the Helovian barrier which steals and thwarts.) "I am sorry," Confutatis proffers as quiet condolence, despite the present belief that her apology will do nothing to soothe what surely must be agony over that misfortune. "How did that event transpire? I can't imagine it was through choice." It is an attempt at camaraderie, consolation, and she hopes dearly he will recognize it as way to further deepen trust between them, dependence on partnership a concept foreign to her.
Indeed, for a moment her thought drifts to a time where Helovia was lacking in magic. Should she warn him? No, it does not matter, she decides with an inward shrug; the Endless Night had ended, after all, and he had already lost it. Her attentions return, abandoning the curiosities of sorcery and necromancy.
As they face off over matters of racial discrepancy, she readily notes the slight change of mainly stony expression; her heart gives a squeeze of hope they can overcome differences in belief. It is to her relief (though she shows it not) that Tyradon is open to the possibilities of others, even if his voice blazes with acrid rancor. It would not help to constrict and constrain to equine; she could not imagine all the religiously stubborn individuals of Helovia withstanding specisim. With more than a hint of resignation she eyes him, because if that pillar of flame curling from emerald Cynder's mouth was any indication, he may struggle with containing his temper, no matter his reassurances.
Nevertheless, she puts asides her insecurities; she extends her console on the matter of racism, and positives and negatives of embarking on inter-species comradeship. "None will start off that way, dragon king; questions WILL be asked, no matter breed or type. Trust will be built from scratch, in the first seedlings of friendship and companionship." The hellion studies him carefully, as if waiting for another rather volatile reaction; and then she carries on, plucking and pruning words doggedly as to reassure rather than perilously wreak havoc on their plans. "But of course, threats will not be tolerated, regardless of breed. Crown thieves and kingdom rats will be banished... through one way or another."
Death, she could've said; murder and slaughter, but the harlot feels he should be wise enough to pick up the darkening of her sinuous voice.
They carry on to a manner she has thought of since first laying eyes on the stallion. Her wicked leer widens at sight of Cynder's primping; she loves the glitter of those emerald scales. At her hooves Mongrel slithers around leg and fetlock, weaving between her four pillars incessantly, the barbs of his impatience knocking at the back of her skull. Calm down, she thinks to him; but he ignores her and the crude language of equine scornfully. A question hangs in the air between mare and stallion, a wrong label that has Mongrel's hackles bristling. "Kitsune," Confutatis declares, nudging the inari out from under her hooves with an ankle. "Not dog... but yes, we are bonded telepathically through some unknown fact of misfortune. His name is Mongrel- for he is a little monster, I'm afraid." A beast who wove nightmares and created illusions of evil misfortune, but that she keeps to herself.
There is more for her to declare, to speak, to offer, but she hesitates before embarking. Her gaze is gentling inexplicably, a thorn of worry in her side; she recognizes (or so she thinks) the elitism in his voice at dragonkind and equine. If only that was so- but the variations in magic and companionship was not meant to be in a world without the three Originals, with different gods and a different country. For all it's similarities and the Isilmanian populace, this was Helovia, Path to the Sun, a place where magic abounded and respect and fear was lacking, where feudal systems and tyrannies oft crumbled beneath the weight of "better" men. "This is not Isilme, Tyradon, and the sooner you learn that the better off you will be." Confutatis states simply, without pity or empathy, no sugar-coating or honeying. It was better for him to reconcile with the ideas of all bonds and all species than to be dead from a unicorn's griffon or a pegasus' zephyr.
As their bonded embrace without touch, Mongrel scampers forth to greet Cynder; for a moment he glares, lips curling into a snarl, caught between anger and amusement; and then the folds of black fur come down over craggy teeth, and he takes the gift, and he scurries off into the darkness.
He comes back with a mouse to lay at the dragon's feet, and his amber eyes glow unreadably.
Take it.
CONFUTATIS
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