Confutatis

You are a brick tied to me that's dragging me down / Strike a match and I'll burn you to the ground / We are the jack-o-lanterns in July / Setting fire to the sky

It’s not working. The arrogance, the cockiness, the sureness; whatever fuels her, burns through her like wild flame and gasoline, is dying, withering, in the years that pass. When she fought Apollo, warred against him in the rain and the thunder, she had been so full of it, of herself, so sure that she could rise victorious. It wasn’t stepping into another skin; it was her skin.

World Eater, Queen of Skulls, the Cruel… they were names she wore, gleefully, even if none spoke them but her own tangled thoughts. And now, now they are so little.

Confutatis is terrified.
There beneath layers of conviction and confidence and presumed arrogance is an unholy and devout seed germinating to full flower: fear. It is seeded through the fractures in her armor, grows and chokes in her lungs. Each move is done, carefully, with strength and solidity, but it cannot override the fact that for all her former courage and strength, she doesn't know if she can win, doesn't know if this is worth fighting for. Her heart is fluttering, her breath is coming too short, and her nerves are quivering and guttering in the wind. Any moment now, she’ll lose control; her hand will slip on the reins, the horse will get the bit between its teeth, and she’ll be done.

Amber eyes sting but she holds back that fucked agony. I’m not weak. Out of Helovia she had been a queen, a goddess, a monster, a nightmare they only whispered of.

False comfort. Mongrel’s concern pervades through her mind, worry, the faintest hint of sorrow. Each thought he weaves is of death, of murder, of slaughter, of the victories she’s charted away; memories, each cherished, now fallen to ash. Back she shoves against them, wearing a skin of uncaring, and Mongrel’s contact fades away until all she can feel of him is a dull throb of resentment.

No. Much as she hurts, much as she wants to leave, she can’t: because of her children.

I can’t let them down. They watched her, worshiped her, and she punished them, schooled them, loved them with a passion she couldn't explain. Never before had she been controlled so completely by an emotion utterly foreign to her; she had born sons and daughters before (her hips were thick and wide with the signs of it) but it wasn't the same.

Her and her twins' bond was something precious, raw and tender and heartfelt.
They weren't… contaminated by the views of those around her. They saw her for her.
No one would take that away from her.

As Deimos’ magic is unleashed, it doesn't hurt. Not as she would expect it too—it’s not agony, raw and prevalent, but a blanket dark and warm and strangely hollow, wrapping around every inch of her. A soft silk embrace. It draws at her, wiggling into her bones, ringing in her skull, sapping from her the vital energy she so needs to fight; she wavers, quivers, heart thundering. In the back of her mind she can feel a twin pull on Mongrel’s side of the bond, a vague sensation of panic as the illusions begin to flicker and fade. Whereas she, nightmare queen, felt only the lechery of Deimos’ necromancy, Mongrel feels the drain of energy in full.
At last the illusions around them fade in entirety.

Alone, with only the faintest of hums in the back of her mind (annoyance, exhaustion) pertaining to her companion’s state.

Confutatis can’t claim surprise. There’s only a ringing numbness in her ears, a sensation of falling without ever moving. Bones tighten, flex over her skin, her armor pressing in firmly to each curve; and then the agony sinks in, the deep exhaustion lining every crease of her countenance. How easy it would be to give up; how easy it would be, to sink into apathy and melt into shadow. Just another failure to my name.

Hooves skip, slide on the slick Rotunda floor as she skates by Deimos, muscles softened by the use of his magic. With an effort, Confutatis attempts to wrench
herself to her left, to pivot about her hindquarters to face the man in black.

Murderer. Thief. King.
On her she can feel the eyes of her little ones. She can feel the weight of Oblivion’s name on her shoulders.

And then it bursts from her. Rage, and fury, and above all insidious black necromancy to wash him in rot, in ruin, in desecration, a blasphemous magic to slough skin from his bone and strip him down to his white architecture. Be gone with you. Let him be ruined; let him lose, please by all the gods, just let him lose.
All she wants is to be with her children.
All she wants is to be GONE from Helovia.

3/4 for Confutatis' armor.
Word Counter: 799 using wordcounter.net
Summary: Unleashes her rot magic towards him and around the entire Rotunda area.
OOC: To address your concerns:
“… he dodged towards the left, away from her scraping daggers and her disgusting ivories.”
Since you did not signify to Confutatis’ left, I assumed this to mean Deimos’ left, or Confutatis’ right.

“He maneuvered, swift, cunning, towards the right, hoping to aim for the left side of her nape.”
Again, you did not signify Confutatis’ left; I constitute something as hers if you were to say “on her left side, towards x area”. The “her” here is instead being applied to nape, not left. I took this to mean Deimos’ right, which at this point, considering Deimos moved to his left, would be aligned to Confutatis’ right. C: I hope this makes sense!

So unless Deimos was to dodge to his right, therefore coming up on Confutatis’ left, there would be some impossible contortions going on.

In other words:
”… I was very confused on the direction changes, since Deimos was going towards Confutatis’ left in his horn attack, and suddenly Confutatis was on his right.”
She was on his right all along!