| Hidden Account atk: 5 | def: 8.5 | dam: 5.5 |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2hh :: 9 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Mongrel :: Common Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
wanda |
Conical ears, gently tapering to acute tips, twitch and half-circle, pivoting from their perches on her skull, listening in wordless attentiveness. Is that the crunch of icy buildup beneath hooves she hears in the distance? Her audits flick, seeking out the source to no avail. The only sound to break the tedious quiet is a muffled thump as a snowdrift slips free from it's precarious perch on a frosted tree branch. Nostrils widen, inhaling the aroma of leaf mold and cold earth beneath the opalescent sheets of snow; her cranium tilts, almost idle in the fluid movement. There is no sound to betray her to what blind bat may fumble through the Threshold (though she knows the approach of Morir not); she stands, almost perfectly still except for the subtle shiver of her skin. She shifts her weight, the faintest of crackles as her right hind brushes against the crusted layers of white waiting to be heard in this moonless night.
Today she braved the dark and the undead for an excellent purpose: the recruitment of fiends, monsters, and other nefarious beasts, to fetch home warriors for the cavern home. In silence does she stand, but from the contemplative expression upon her eerie face a stranger could tell her mind was whirring with the cacophony of too many thoughts.
There is the flavor of worry to her thoughts, one unbecoming of the demon-daughter. It is not her's. It is the mongrel's, the kitsune who perches vicariously upon her withers, breath frosting in the frigid winter air. He is tentative to share the depth of his fear, to let the blushed-blue horror of his oceanic thoughts wash in to meet the rocky shores of Confutatis' impassable and ragged mind. From birth, he has been an Inari through and through, nefarious and twisted and a little vile thing, despite his vaguely cute appearance; he had bent his mind to Confutatis' will, and she to his, until their very ideas, the integral parts of their being, had meshed into a peculiar new offspring. One might declare this double the trouble, double the darkness, double the evil; but it was impossible to divine shadow from light, oblivion from oblivious.
Stop, she demands of him, upper lip curling in distaste at his weakness. He does not employ the basic vocabulary he has begun to learn; as with one's own thoughts, their communication is disjointed and incomplete, as why would they need to pronounce each and every part of the sentences they think as one?
A ragged glimpse of a sun rising, the fall of clouds shrouding the moon, a desolate landscape; a skull, half-crushed; black hooves, green scales. That is enough.
They begin to move, making ample sound to one who listens to it's senses. There is the crunch of hooves sinking deep into the powdery snow beneath the icy crust, the exasperated snort, the occasional rumble of a fox's complaints. Teeth click and grind, frustration apparent between the pair. And then, there is gray, and black, and jagged horns and the curve of a magnificent neck. Together, they halt, draw themselves up proud, senses sharp for signs of danger, for he looks dangerous.
Across the forefront of her vision, there is a glimpse of hooded eyes and cracked eyeballs.
Mongrel's thoughts pervade hers.
Blind.
From a distance they watch, a child approaching a stallion tall and dark, a stallion vaguely like Tyradon the Dragon Lord. Head cocks inquisitively, cautious advance; grayed tail flicks across ebon flanks. "It is not safe for the dead because of the undead." Riddled uncertainties falls from her poison lips. "I can offer an eye-less necromancer shelter, but a little girl will have to prove her worth." Her voice is crushed velvet, cracked ice, the crawling of a spider; elegant and refined and terribly wrong.
CONFUTATIS
and when you meet me, you at long last acquaintance yourself with death in all its magnificent glory.
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