There drifts on the wind the alluring reek of familiar, prevailing ash flame, an aroma of which burns in her nostrils and startles a waning mind into bitter wakefulness. Poised lashes twist, flicker down across gilded retinas, her lips curling into a panting something caught between pained smile and agonized grimace; the torment is unending, it seems, even in her delieverence; for now, she feels the familiar ache of a swollen belly, an exhaustion which curdles in her twisted limbs and inflamed joints. It's cold here, a frigid nip to the air which paints lupine skin with frozen sweat that crunches with every shift.

Still, it cannot distract her from being reunited [imminently] with her lover, him with swarthy skin and dark eyes and white legs. Ragged is her breathing, a damnable rasp of weakness; but despite her efforts to smooth it, round off the jagged edges, blunt pointed fringes, it remains as fragmented and dilapidated as ever.

At last, she gives in, and she laments her age. Though not old, she's not a sprightly broodmare anymore. The twins had cost more of her precious energy than she would care to admit.

Even if her breath is not caught, however, Confutatis will not greet Tyradon lying prone.
With a massive grunt, the warmblood unbends, unfolds, knees quivering subtly, joints creaking beneath her weight as she clambers upwards, weight swaying over her legs. Precarious. Vulnerable. Startlingly thin, with the ribs still pressed sharp against flanks only partially-filled. Even with her brief stay in the Falls, she was very much recovering from her starvation; and, with the gray beginning to grow around her muzzle and the weekly attempts to steal her back to the Aurora Basin, the World Eater had little time to strengthen herself as she should.

Nostrils press wide, little ribbons of crimson visible, fleshy parts visible in her exhaustion. Blood drips down her hindlegs; sweat soaks her shoulders. Her mane is tangled, knotted, clinging to her damp neck. Eyes roll, flashing white in the growing brightness.
Arrogant. Feral. Deranged.

Her head twists, one gleaming gold eye settling on the approaching figure. One hindleg kicks out, brief, a sudden and not-so-subtle warning: keep your distance, warmonger! Father he might be, but he was not to approach what she had borne.

And then she watches him, wary, fever-eyed, poisonous; not missing Cynder, perched on his withers, or the words that slip from a slack tongue. Breath sours between yellowed teeth; she keeps her words in firm check. Kind of him. Not to ask after her. Not to give a fuck about how she felt after labor. Of course, it's no surprise -- Tyradon, war beast, would not be the same without his a s s h o l e ways. How can she begrudge him his uncaring, when she is the same? True men and women suffered through pain without worry, fear, or thought.

"The girl will have flame." Confutatis murmurs, tilting her skull ever-so-slightly, gaze flicking back to Nymeria who rocks, warm and dark. "The boy... my magic."

Out it stretches, tendrils of rot and decay, seeking ever-so-gently the amulet of which Tyradon speaks of; she seeks to fill it, breath death and rot into a pretty frame.

"Anything is possible here. If it is true... surely it will only prove to be an asset to our children."