The horizon beckoned, beseeching her to draw near to the charcoal silhouettes superimposed upon a background of viridescent scarlet and gold; silhouettes with edges burned by the sun, seared ebony turned glowing ruby and lined with a filament of silver. Mountains. Ancient, surpassing age and the stream of time, predating to a time where the world was new and raw, freshly hatched from the minds of the gods. And perhaps this was why she was drawn to them, unable to tear her gaze away, a slithering, stalking wolf among the lambs, shadow hewn into scarred flesh and brittle features (ready to crack, fracture upon the advent of unfamiliar emotion); filled with a desire to find the everlasting, the immortal, that of which thrived when others withered and died.

To rob it of it's majesty, to drink it's sweet elixir, and to inherit flawless freedom from the hours which slunk ever closer; the hours of her ending, of her destruction, of her ruinous and pitiful end. Maybe she had months left, or years, but it marched on all the same, soldiered towards her inevitable fall from fame.
Death.
The Reaper.

Up she climbed, lupine limbs steady, unerring, even as she begins to fatigue, even when her sinful skin darkens with sweat. It gathers upon her, gray foam and sickly wet—as unappetizing as her blind eye, or the pronounced edge of her ribs, or the acid which dripped from burnt lips. Still, Confutatis embraces the work, embraces the churn of muscle beneath velvet skin, the crack of her bones and the creak of her knees. She lets joy liberate a tarnished soul, allows ecstacy to dull the worrisome bite of being forgotten; soon enough, emotion will be lost in entirety, and she will be granted freedom. Freedom from her mistakes, freedom from the weight dragging down her belly, freedom to wage war and live and thrived with her Dragon King; away from Helovia, away from her failures and trepidations.

And yet even when she relinquished her greedy grip on celebrity, she would not be forgotten. Her children—and she was certain it was children, for surely no child could weigh so damn much by itself—would carry out her plans without being hindered by a hated name.
They would do what she could not.

Up and up.
She will not fall down.

The world gleams as the sun glints for the first time behind the impassable places of the tangled wilderness, glitters on snow-capped peaks and refracts upon deep glaciers untouched and unmelted for centuries. For a heartbeat in the impossibly long and inordinate passages of time, the world is illuminated in the most heavenly light (all rose and blushing pink) with the stars still glittering in the bruised sky; and then the sun heaves it's mass upwards once again, disappearing between the overlapping edges of the mountains. Confutatis cannot claim to care; she had seen what she needed to to confirm the continuum of life among Helovia.

Inside her womb stirs a legacy, and then the pain, the teeth-grinding, inexplicable, pain, begins to set in.
Of course it would happen here. The birth of a new era would begin among the world untouched, the mountain provinces undelivered from the devious nature of peace and solitude.

She hopes they will grow to be conquerors, murderers, slaughterers, barbarians, but above all: KINGS.

Down she rests in damp grass, dew glistening upon curved spine and ashen flank, and then she labors, wordless, enduring all the inevitable agony of childbirth without complain. From her torment would arise only victory, majesty, and dominion; she would survive. And then she would teach them: of the best way to cut out a victim's heart, how best to belittle someone, how best to fight. How to deceive; how to win.

All she has to do is get through this, and she does.
From her slides damp and death and life and tangled limbs. Hers.
Wet and heat and cold and blood.

Twins.
Rulers.
Gods.
K I N G S.

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Birthing thread for Confutatis!
You are welcome to post so long as your character is not of malicious intent :)