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Mongrel's mind is a tidal wive beating against her harsh onyx sand shores. It sings, a sweet, cruel symphony, of wicked sins; of lust and wrath, envy and vanity, a haunting background to her whirring thoughts, which are circling around plans and formulations and the future. That distant present is so close she can taste the grime and salt of blood on her tongue- and yet so far, so intangible, elusive, always slipping through her fingertips. Patience, she croons to herself and the fractured panes of her ideas; with patience, all will fall into place, crowns and kingdoms and slaves, all hers (and Tyradon's, of course, but she is a selfish girl on occasion.)
The light sparkles, a kaleidoscope of red and girl, orange and blue, glistening on her charcoal skin and skull-marked face. She is set apart, always, to be a queen, not a commoner, a ruler, not a follower.
In silence she awaits.
Mongrel slithers from the demon daughter's hooves, oil sliding over silver snow. Her half-blinded eyes flicker close, as she lets herself nestle in the impenetrable depths of his cranium, tracing the yako's path as he moves, unseen, by the river-banks of the wide rapids foaming their way through the center of the meadow. From a distance, the kitsune hardly draws attention; just a little slip of a fox, knotting and writhing tail hardly visible. Today he is the watcher, amber and scarlet eyes fixated on the distant approach of two individuals. One unicorn she recognizes through the distorted images she perceives from her bonded. Morir, soot and threads of winding white, a deer's skull hooding his features. The other is pale, white as bone but for midnight legs and shadowed muscle, electric eyes and ebony crown.
The air is bitter cold in her lungs.
The girl has a white lion perched on her head.
Companions are always a weak spot, even in the strongest of hearts.
Her head twitches back and forth between them- she is uncertain, and for that Confutatis cannot blame her. They are strangers in a strange land, feral-eyed beasts hemming her in, death and misfortune encroaching on virgin white. Ears flick, fetid lips curl into an unfortunately sinister smile (despite her best intentions), eyelids sweep down across heterochromic eyes. "Death not take you," she states calmly, "My intent was not- and is not- to bare my teeth, but sheep are often afraid to approach a wolf, even if it is alone." Nostrils cusp wide to drink in the mare's scent; she smells of electricity and ice. "I am Confutatis."
Move from the entrance she does not, but she eases onto three legs, cocking a hindleg beneath her, picture of insolent innocence, provided innocence is a child who just pulled the wings off a fly. "Are you interested in gruesomely painful interactions? Since I can arrange it, if you would like."
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