The mongrel queen's lupine ears twitch, shift, tuning in to the rustle (warning crackle) of beasties encroaching and infringing upon her beloved solitude; paper lungs inhale, swell and expand in ashen chest, weight shifting forth to her hooves, nostrils flaring to cusp heady scents of humidity and moisture, damp sweat and the lathered stench of horse ---- a refined stink to her aura of composed malice and putrefaction. Her neck curves, graceful, sweeping lines, picturesque smile coming to play over her acidic features, xanthous eyes glittering, shining, with undecipherable light; what a smile! A union of decomposition, slime, and yet she conveys cheer, light-hearted open-ness manipulation, mustering charm.
Nonetheless, the native grimaces at her, despicable, wretched frowns - Confutatis draws herself tall, sleek, commandeering authority, brows rising into faintly haughty disgust; "I did not realize the World's Edge treated strangers so rudely," she beseeches, resisting the urge to speak of kings and queens, monarchs and sovereigns - she sneers, advances a step or two before halting. "I would seek to join the Edge -- of course, I can just leave if you would prefer, seeing as you are rather terribly demanding."
There would be no more mistakes; no more frivolous slips, no more failures; she was tired, so tired, of her shortcomings. It was a bitter blade, grating between her ribs, sharp behind her forelegs -- every step she took, it cut ever deeper, an insidious sensation of her battling inabilities and insecurities. Flawed, she knew it, she knew that until her muscles ached and screamed and she bled all over, only then would she truly be ready to take her crown, to ascend the throne as she so desired.
I am the wolf.
The world was hers to devour.
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