For a moment she is inexplicably at a loss, for a fraction of a sliver of a second (Confutatis, lost? Confused? Never! At least, so she would think, and so she spins her web of lies snug around herself!) at his being, at the tangle of scents that lie around him- the brittle cold of ice and snow, the faint and rich decadence of decay. Has she grown old? Senile? For her heart gives a wintry twinge, and her brain tricks her into the scents of milk and sweat and c h i l d, but she is not some common, mothering WHORE! She was a queen, a lady, not a mare to be mounted by peasants; a rope of drool slips over her lips, and her muzzle wrinkles in passionate fury at her fucking weakness. It is with relief that he withdraws from her touch, and Confutatis gives a shudder, concerned with her maternal... feelings.

Her ears flicker back at the sound of a familiar, drawling voice, and her venomous eyes give a singular roll (how foolish he is, is it not obvious that they look the same? Oh, yes, blind, she had forgotten, but she supposed it explained his slowness.)

The wind shrieks in her ears, the blizzarding snow stinging in her eyes; she turns away, putting her haunches to the harsh breezes, swallowing back the poison that sizzles and slithers from her slavering mouth. Over such storming she hears Veil confirm and affirm of parentage and bloodlines- in silence she thanks him for his silvered tongue, an ability which she had not mastered in her years of travel and conquering. No, she corrects herself arrogantly; that was my doing, all of it, that honed ability to persuade and influence, convince and entice. She does not convey her pleasure in his sauve tones and sleek satire, the way he holds such admirable command over himself; she lets him doing the talk, at ease beside a child, a queen beside a fresh-faced prince; she is satisfied with his consolations and explainations.

If there is one thing Death is good at, it is at raising her child.

Veil, she might've sung if not for the witness of their present company; in court, you do not ignore the nobles and congressmen who are always watching, always listening. The ascension to power is marked with the making of enemies and the forging of allies- they will always tear you from the throne if you are not careful. Of war-mongering and waging, the easiest was the conquer; to hold onto power, not let it s l i p between your fingers, was the difficult part. Nonetheless, she refrains from such an open act, uncertain of Morir's loyalty, trying to think of how he would want to see her child treated (strictly? cruelly? kindly?)

"I was not long ago explaining this to our present company, Morir," Confutatis rasps, her voice lacking all the youthful silkiness of her son's. "Helovia, the land you have come to, is not usually like this... it is a place ripe with magic and citizens, worlds waiting to be conquered." Her charcoal lips move into perfected smile, but for the foam that bubbles and drips thickly from her yellowed teeth. "For now, the undead roam, corpses who walk by means of necromancy unknown to myself. The four main herds have disbanded when we forced underground to live as cockroaches would, but there is simply no way to fight the dead, at least at the present." There is a hesitation, where she puzzles over what should be said next. She lacks the natural aptitude and ability to sense what to say and what to leave out, as her son does.

"I admit my... campaign has gone poorly until now." Her amber eye flicks away from the dark colt to rest sharply on Morir, unsaid warning of a possible spy. Of what she can say around the thrice-crowned unicorn she is uncertain; their bond is at too soon of a beginning to reveal the glorying plans of the future, of ultimate domination. It is with caution that she proceeds to explanations for her child-king. "I, alongside a stallion by name of Tyradon, have begun our quests for suitable candidates for a family."