Ivory claws hooked into cinereal flesh, splitting strips of shadowy hue from developing sinews. Parallel scores of pink are exposed to the blistering heat of the sun, fringed in tasseled droplets of ruby red. Jangled nerves split and fray beneath the agony of predatory claws—sending a new jolt of pain reverbrating through her body.

There is no time to pray, no time to hope for a saviour, for a hero—but to say she was reduced to a windstorm of thoughts would be false. Snagged in her terror, twisted into a purgatory of fear, nothing vies for her attention, nothing interrupts her pain. There is only the overpowering urge to run, an instinct honed by years of "predator-vs-prey" conflict, a life-saving inclination passed on from mother to daughter, father to son. Even being capable of speech and sentient thought, Nymeria was just a horse, just a girl—food and fodder for the hungry, meat to silvered fangs.

Weak. Powerless.
Being daughter of a warlord didn't mean a thing when you couldn't fight, she would think later; being painted with a skull on your head only meant you were marked out for death, for slaughter.

There was a rush of black wings and leathery rustling as Lilómiel races downwards from the sky, flexing shadow and sinew thrusting through thick, humid summer air towards the creature lined up along Nymeria's hindquarters. Scales gleam and glisten, striped with sunlight—sparkling like onyx. Hooded eyes, dark and full of intent, narrow as jaws stretch wide; in-and-out, in-and-out, fear for his bonded purging him of all thought but raw instinct. Down, down, a missile through the wind (which howls around him, furious)—and at the last moment wings snap open, flaring wide. Fangs, sculpted in the manner of a terrifying array of needles, slam down over the cougar's left eye, crunching through the amber iris. Viscous liquid bursts through the ruined cornea, the vitreous humour spilling out into miniature jaws. Simultaneously, the dragon's foreclaws hook firmly around the cougar's head, piercing into the soft flesh, wings wrapping around the neck, scrabbling for a grip with its dewclaws.

And then there is a roar, a battle-cry, white and blue witchcraft spinning around in a dizzying manner, focusing in on the cougar. Once more, a wordless scream, a crescendo of her fear and confusion, tears from Nym's lips, splitting the air (tainted with the scent of her fear.) For all appearances, it would seem the orbs are coming for her—and rational thought is very difficult to find, with her nerves on fire.

Still, even in the throes of fear, instinct prevails. With the desperation of a drowning man, Nymeria—flailing wildly with her hind hooves in an awkward attempt to give the cougar a good kick—rips free from the big cat's embrace.

Lilómiel!The girl's head twists frantically, lashing 'round to catch glimpse of the black dragon pulling free from the retreating cougar. Wrinkled sails spread, tertiary appendages catching the wind and sending him spiralling back upwards into the sky. Relief washes—momentary—through her, and for a strange, suspended moment in time, she feels... feels fine (albeit far from normal.)

He's okay. And yes; yes, there, through their bond, Nymeria can taste his gleeful conceit, his arrogant pride in the small role he played contributing to his companion's safety. Beneath that toxic veneer of happiness (and forgone concern for Nym) she can taste the sickly overtures of the cougar's eye, a taste he rolls around quite happily in his mouth. Faint disgust blooms in her breast, a disappointment in his carnivorious tendenacies diminished by her relief for his safety. Yeah, it was fucking gross... but on the other hand, what he had done was so brave and stupid, and it was for her benefit.

How could she begrudge him a victory morsel when he saved her?

Ears lash back to her skull at sound of another warcry, a victorious screech, and the gossamer girl halts mid-step, whirling around to see her second hero. Blood bursts, drips, as a lightly-hued mare drives her pearlescent horn through the chest of the retreating cougar. Eyes widen, growing wide in astonishment, and she cringes back, the blood being a far worse sight than it should be. It... the cougar needed to die, didn't it? It had attacked her—it would've eaten her alive—and yet to see its body slump and twist beneath the unicorn's horn... lids drift shut over ruby eyes, brow furrowing, gut writhing in discomfort.

One, two, three.
Mother always told her to breathe, to push away her fear.

There is the thump of hooves touching on soil, a warmth to the air; the scent of horseflesh grows stronger, and sweat, and iron. It clamors for her attention, a cascade of ripe reeks, and slowly, with a childish tentativeness, one eyelid gently slides open. There she is.

Reaving Artemis, blood-soaked Melisandre, god-fighting Penthesilea.
"Nymeria," she says, ever-so-quietly, eyes casting towards the ground, neck bowing. Ears soften to half-mast, lips champing together softly. In the back of her mind she can feel the weight of Lil's displeasure, his arrogance warring against her submission—but even he cannot move her from her placid stance. Her hero deserves her respect; and—seeing that death wielded at hand of a warrior queen... she is afraid.

"No."
A lie; and a bad one, at that, seeing as blood stains her torn and chewed hindquarters.

and you're so mysterious

got that obsession with death