Forward the titan sweeps, yellowed teeth reaching for her shoulder; she does not reprimand him, but allows it to fall, instead reaching out with her own head in turn and snapping towards his forelock, aiming to snag the long hairs between her fangs. Nostrils flare, intoxicated by the earthly strangeness of his reek, the metallic tang of blood and sulfur sunk beneath the scent of sweat; her ears twitch back, pinning to her tangled mane, as her neck curls and head hangs proud. She is regal, effeminate, in her majesty; cruel and forbidding with her sharp smile. Nobody. Does he really think so little of her, that Confutatis, the World Eater, would shy away from the poised blades of murder, even of children? A shame, truly; she had thought she had left a rather more meaningfully macabre impression upon him.

"Only myself," she instead dictates, her voice a chilling rasp (like the drawing of a blade! The clang of the hammer coming down on the forge!) And her grin, so savage and yet with a coy reticence, grows ever wider as they prepare to dance.

Up her head tosses, silvered mane coming to hang across snagged and torn shoulders, as she presses forward, aiming to slam the shelf of her right shoulder against his, a cruel embrace; to throw her head over his neck, to squeeze him. Not out of the silly 'love' she has for him, but only because she wants to feel the pressure of their bodies grinding together, the hardness and firmness of their rough affection. Teeth grit and her amber eye rolls toward him, fixing upon him, the white sharp and bright around the copper coin. "Tyradon," she groans, taunting smirk playing around her wolfish jowls. "A fight, a fight is not at all want I want." And she aims to withdraw.

Give me a feeling. His voice -- so impassion! Is she not worthy of inciting lust in him, desire and a flush in his loins? She wants him begging, to eagerly quiver after her, to long and hunger for her like a wolf does for the lamb.
Mongrel snorts in disgust somewhere behind her.

Ears cock forward again as he speaks of tyranny, a glint to her ambitious gaze. Naturally. She imprisoned, and him with an army! Yet she cannot claim surprise -- she had known, seen, the power within his massive shoulders, rugged barrel, sharp head. "Captured, dragon-king. Stolen by those of the Basin." A low shrug ripples down her bodice, haughty uncaring for what had transpired in the north. "If only I had someone to teach... they could work in my place, and none would suspect them as they naturally do I."