The succubus queen despaired at thought of once again submerging herself in the warren of rabbit dens she made her home, a place she had first thought of with a malignant wonder and vile curiosity. Yet as days melted in weeks, and weeks to months, she had found herself wearying of the sensation of eyes always watching; the stench of hot bodies thick in the stagnant air; the wailings of children and the ever-constant murmur of voices, a tumbling river around her ears; and she found herself immersed in the want of solitary peace, among company she truly enjoyed rather than all manner of whores and broodmares and gallant stallions.

Perhaps this was why she came reluctantly, hardly leading as would befit the Lady Death, the Monarch of Decay, the Sovereign of Desecration- she found herself ill at the thought of delving into the bowels of the earth. She lingered at the threshold, even with the scents of soot and ash thick in the air, the hushed sense of something watching her, breathing on her; the crawling of her skin, the eerie sense of rot and ruin- I am putrefaction, gangrene and blight; it is not appropriate for me to be scared of what death lies around me. And so she lifts her chin high, the curve of her neck making proud line; she gives a slight shake to her skull, letting her pallid mane lay tangled and close to the chiseled muscle- and it is peculiar, is it not, for in her time with Morir the raven lord and her daemon prince she has grown- grown more MORTAL, less corpse-like, less monstrous, less of an arrogant deity… she is not an omen, she is more present, more alive than in any of her lingering and lurking, pretense of grim symbolism.

She watches, a wordless sentinel, as her thrice-crowned compatriot disappears into the underground; and she turns her skull to Veil, her boy, and smiles as a wolf does. It is on that note that she turns, and with a ripple of skin over cut muscle she burrows into the familiar tunnels she has come to abhor.

There is the clatter of rock and pebbles springing away from her hooves as she enters, the slither of fur rasping over stone as her bonded slips in her wake. It takes her a moment for her eyes to adjust to the utter dark; ahead, deeper into the caverns, there is a faint glow of scarlet and crimson, no doubt emitted by the slow-falling cascades of aureate magma. Her lungs rasp and grate in her intake of breath- the air stinks of briny stone and lichen- and she lets lengthens her step, moving seamlessly from walk to jog. It is not her intent to let her acquaintance be distracted by false promises and empty oaths, by warriors on thrones of glass sculpted by their own arrogance and ego.

And it is good for her to hurry; for what does she see as she emerges into the main cavern but the black dragon king, illuminated in rust and blood, hooves scraping against coarse ground in ringing defiance.

Idiot; is he always morbidly wrapped up in his confessed racism? Does he not see potential fermenting beneath that white-dripped coat? Teeth bare in a CARICATURE of a grin; wolfish, yellowed teeth, and she approaches, decay and ruination swarming around her, springing to life and passion from inactivity. She stalks closer, looming threat, ears pinning to knotted mane at sound of a dragon’s claws shrieking against stone walls. It writhes on her lips- sarcasm- drips from her slavering jaws; “I know you have testosterone, no need to shove it in people’s faces. He’s with me, Tyradon; and despite his lack of eyes he is not bridled by bigotry and discrimination.” And she seems to swell, confidence brimming on arrogance dripping from her pores; she lets settle the full force of her gaze on the egoistic stallion, knife edge to her eyes.

The hellion pivots her ears forth, glancing towards Morir quizzically- she does not imagine he will appreciate being introduced.
Mongrel’s faint amusement ripples through their bond- sensations and feelings spun into what she imagines are his words: since when have you given a single fuck for what people care?

“Morir, this is Tyradon-” a bit of a prick, she may have added (but at least a handsome, war-loving one at that) “- Tyradon, this is Morir; and I think Veil will be here shortly.” If he is not already- he has a tendency to slither through shadows unseen and unnoticed.