Ears twitch, reluctant, swivelling to face the childish, petulant crowing for her ethereal company, nostrils quivering as she lets free a deep and unabashedly disappointed sigh, so endless it crosses into the boundaries of mockery. Sullen girl! Did she not realize she had been blessed to have been targeted by the wolf, the World Eater; that the very fact Confutatis had given a single fuck to attempt stealing her was a compliment beyond express? She was a goddess made flesh, a deity to rival even the Moon Mother, an archangel of slaughter and massacre and undoings of her greatest foes -- and she had given up precious time in order to ambush, deceive, and trap (although to no avail.)

Lips curl, caressing across yellowed fangs; she foams, bubbles, salivates, acidic spittle dribbling down her whiskered chin (filthy! Hideous!) The stench of her magic progresses into a reek, of murder, of decay, of shadow; she is unrivalled! Unparalleled! Genocide, carnage and and butchery!

She will fear me. One of the many silent vows, quaking promises, the wolf makes in the heat of the moment, but no less true for it. How she hungers for blood, how she longs for malignant annihilation... but she must wait. There lies within her the seed of Tyradon, which has begun to sprout into bone and weight, lying heavy upon her stomach, swelling her sides, dragging on her spine. Hollow flanks have been bloated by the outward press of twins. The World Eater is encumbered, burdened, tied down by children. And even despite her predisposition for violence, war, bloodshed, she cannot risk her family, cannot risk the murder of her venerated kin, the little worms she will bring into the world to grow and raise into warlords -- warlords not chained by their parents' mistakes.

Time is taken as she saunters, casual in her arrogance, towards the perpetrator of the call, stopping to nibble at grass or examine a corpse here and there. If the white queen is so eager for a beating, she can wait a while longer. After all, what better thing to do than let her fester in her impatience, let her rational thought by decayed by starvation?!

And at last she enters, her mongrel at her heels, impudent, impetuous, impulsive. Cold is her gaze that rests upon the woman who calls her; frigid, in truth. Let her feel the power of what she has summoned here today -- let her quake in unbridled terror.

"You are eager for bloodshed against a pregnant woman and yet you do not even know the cause of why I tried to steal you." Hard words, like broken glass, a rasp of dismal uncaring.

"Don't you want to know why before you march to war?"