The wolf is always watching.
She knows she has made enemies. She knows that unless she is to crush and devour them first as befitting a demon queen, one day they will become her conqueror, her downfall, the end to her legacy and reign of supremacy. They are there, they are here, in this world of ash and shadows, snow and slush; enemies of the Regime, enemies of herself, crawling seething things of madness and vengeful idiocy. And thus, the hellion’s pitch ears are always pricked in case of bloody murder and screams of rage in the night.

Her mongrel does not share in the cautionary behaviors and mannerisms vaguely prickling at the back of her skull; he scorns such weakness as foresight and discretion.
Naturally, she ignores him, as she so often does.

Confutatis picks her way with a sway of scarred hips and disdainful yellow eyes, at ease in the familiarity of the meadow; even ill and discomfited, she was free of tension in her gait. The mare was simply not that type of individual to fret and frown and scowl over every mistake; she made errors in judgement and reason, as did all the rest, but she learned from her mishaps and vowed to make amends. Instead of fading away, a drifting leaf on the autumn wind, she roared and snarled and snapped and fought for her vengeance and fought to take what was rightfully hers. Every downfall, she turned to advantage, to the best of her abilities.

That did not mean she enjoyed losing.
No, it fed her, hungered her, sharpened her wits and honed her rage to perfection.

A call drifts out over the wind. It is her name; a shriek directed to her, and she hesitates, trying to place it. It is her mongrel who finds the memory, who recalls her enemy; the golden queen, a unicorn woman of curving hips and luscious locks, devious smiles and a refusal to treaty. The skull-faced bitch’s cranium rises, ears pivoting to pinpoint the origin of the sound; her yellow eye seeks the vaguely familiar shape. There, on the horizon, she finds it.

Death and rot, ruin and decay; it a hymn, a prayer on charcoal lips, a song of remembrance.
She begins to cover the distance; she halts twelve strides away, mocking and malicious, Mongrel crowning her withers.

“You are not my queen, little lamb,” she croons, she whispers, she sighs, crushed velvet and the slither of a snake, ripping silk and spider crawling up the wall. “You are a whore- a leg-spreading sighing thing, pleasure-house for stallions, queen of sluts.”
“What do you want?”