The silhouette, painted silver and stained with crimson, sharpens as the wolf approaches, turning from an alasbastar figurine to a real and abysmally disappointing woman. Ophelia is all thin lines and poised elegance and sharp intelligence. Graceful, surely, but what she wants is bulk and bruises and scars, bloodied muzzles and broken teeth and shattered bones, the epitome of extremity and tragic warfare. A true challenge. And so instead of sizing her up, instead of examining her, all she does is tilt her head, grizzled hairs playing over a swarthy neck, lips curling back in a sickly grimace.

There's no joy in it, no love, no longing for blood, carnage, war; Confutatis has long passed that point of foolish ambition. It sits within her, but her intent is to pass it on, let the ember spark and blaze into the hearts of children. She might've fallen short of her mark, but they would continue her legacy, improve upon it --

Become what she had wanted to be for so long.

And so how this woman, so foolishly encumbered by honorable ideals and mindless obedience, could think that really believe that she could take anything from her, was beyond her comprehension. Did she think that she was doing herself a favor, dominating the World Eater? Did she think that fucking Confutatis over { even if it did come to that } would change the nature embedded into her soul? Time and time again she had picked herself up again, reassembled those bruised sinews and blew the dust off her arrogance. It was impossible to down her entirely; she would just come up with new ways to be a fucking pain in the ass. With all the sensitivity of Helovians, all their "honor" and "guileless nature", it wasn't difficult.

All you had to do was not be another knight in tarnished armor.
The challenge was meaningless.
When would Ophelia realize that?

The wolf bristled, haloed by spikes of necromancy which pierce outward from her skin -- sinful projections of her rage, waves of rot and storming destruction hardly contained as the Forsaken dares venture into territory she knows nothing of. How can she? How can this cunt claim to know anything about her? She doesn't know her, has never met her; she can not know her mind, cannot know what she thinks of her children. It sickens her. Her children, her progeny, were of utmost importance.

D E A T H would take her before harm befell them.
A thousand armies would be slaughtered, millions of bodies deposited into a graveyard, billions of hearts would be broken, before she would allow a single hair on their heads to be harmed (by another other than her.)