A maker of poisons? How curious, she thinks with a giggle, leaning forward to hear more, her mouth poised to inquire just who and where this man was, her insults to the pale skull forgotten most abruptly (as many of the things she does are).

Suddenly, the white faced one is at her ear, her breath hot and disgusting as it bats the tender insides of the sensitive things. They pin instinctually, her face turns with swiftness cryptic and powerful as she lunges with ivories bared, no longer caring to maintain polite exteriors before the dirty dark one when her discovery was being so very rude. If her bite lands upon her or not, Beloved doesn’t bother to learn – for she quickly gains an exterior of stone and looks hotly over at the bitch, her eyes liquid metal that swim and twist and ripple in the light and in her disgust for the audacity of the foolish one, her pale tail trashing violently behind her.

"No, no, not untouchable," she hisses, the sound of a prayer as she slowly twists figurative fingers around the thick handle of a knife that drips blood from dozens of unknown shadows in the corner, drips blood that endlessly finds purchase on the steel, "but Beloved will rip your face from you should you try that again."

That the stallion has stepped forward only now catches her attention, her aggression lost in the bemused laughter that suddenly takes her as she realizes he had moved to defend her. Oh, oh goodness!

Even he seems to be swept away by the same shadow that poisons them all, and it’s so rich, it’s nearly too much for the little white one as she giggles and titters mirthfully in response to his defensive posture and his own words that usher warnings. "Perhaps we!" she gleefully howls, little hoof stamping for a good while until she can regain herself.

When she does, there are more things to be learned from the one with the dreaded mane who stinks of metal. He’s talking of Gods, Gods, and she knows ever so much how important those titans of idiocy and power can be.

He does indirectly challenge her, however – and she finds her ears falling back slightly as he claims she will never be truly worshipped among these mortals. It is no matter, really, she decides after a mad tousle of logic and madness within her mind that left her slack jawed and with the blankest of expressions while he speaks; all mortals come to love her, in time.

"Pale face," she says quite suddenly, turning her eyes to the other madwoman as if she hadn’t just assaulted and threatened her within seconds of one another, as if they are friends and she’d have any idea what the ivory one talks about, "do not fret. Perhaps this God is stronger than those who died before."

She giggles, a mad memory of a worn castle, of three divine beasts who fell with its walls. Such a pretty painting, this one, cherished as her images of the fish and the corpse of moonlight.