They are not kindly monsters; they are abominations, heinous beasts, drawn to power as others are drawn to love; they do not sing of friendship, they crow of darkness, shadows crawling and creeping. What are they? They are death and decay, wrought in mortal form, arrogance and ambition lined in every scrupulous gleam of amber-and-crimson eyes; their presence is suffocating, demanding, and feral. Sophistication does not drip from her charcoal lips, only a broken knife of rusted beginnings, riddled words, conundrums, and paradoxes poised as conversation, words speaking of sheep and wolves and lambs and spiders. Yet, for all their conceited dreaming, wicked lust, and determination, they are still mere commoners in the grand scheme of things (but that would change soon, that it would.)

Confutatis does not amble out of the Heart Caves with vague ideas; she emerges with a stench of confidence edging on recklessness, hooves crunching through ice and snow, her yako kitsune a smear of oil swirling over crusted powder. Their minds are not unified in friendship, but in demand and desire, a passion, a hunger for anarchy and tyranny, their ideals (or lack thereof) running along parallel roads- seize the crown, steal the throne, cut the enemy's throat in the shadows. The hellion barges forwards at a regal walk, impetuous and imperious, cutting down any that stand in her way with a glance of cold yellow steel and bones materializing on charcoal hide. They fall back, even if unwillingly, as she waltzes by them, wicked leer playing over her wicked face, seemingly unsure of such a presence; eventually the little peasants are gone, and she is alone in the wide meadows.

Not quite; a shaggy silhouette on the horizon, mahogany coat thick and lush, bending over something unidentifiable in the snow. Her yako's tails twirl, mind cruel as always- images of flayed skin and bloody meat- but his compatriot in crime flicks an ear and bares her teeth in a scowl; she would not allow in the wasting of fodder.
Thus, they approach, a stately procession, her step languid and loose, expression unidentifiable.

The queen of skulls halts, curling her neck into a challenging arch, aquiline eyes pinning and enfolding the mare, examining her punctiliously, cracked lips unmoving; she strikes a queenly pose in the cool light of the winter day, all black and pale bones, smelling of fetid corpses gone to waste and rot. As she examines the mare, her smaller height, the color of her coat, the intelligence in her eyes, the darkness to her legs, her companion skips forward, tails wagging, despicably dog-like, towards them, red tongue lolling out over yellowed teeth. "Stop, fox," she snaps to him, surveying the kitsune with expected disdain. Silence broke, she returns her gaze to the little mare, offering a faint smile not quite sincere nor insincere- empty, if you will. "I am Confutatis, little lamb, who are you?"

She does not notice the gila monster nor the nest.

*Played it like she came after Moniz was talking :3