The arachnid's head cocks, a sinuous, unsettling movement—too smooth, too well-practiced, too abrupt in its ending—an ominous and disquieting motion. Lilómiel's talons hook deeper upon the flesh of her withers, oiled black sinking and chewing into scarred tissue, a communication of private warning to his bonded. Through the serpentine coils of his primitive mind he lets seep forth his dissent, the image of her painted across his eyelids, a careful replication of his judgement. On the second repeat of the images, he adjusts the strokes of Nym's midnight paint against the black and blue canvas, recalculations made for future notes: not such exaggeration with her batted lashes, an easier stop to the inquisitive curve of her head, a more seemly way of being, not trying.

Behind the metaphorical tangle of barbed wires, trenches, and a maze of warfare, she caustically approaches his polite criticism, balanced precariously along the line of irritation and gratitude. A coil of his thoughts lick out to meet her, a submissive proffering of his mentality; with a greed, buried deep, she snatches at it, and savors the subsequent contact. For a moment they are united in mind, with all his feral being there for her to dissect.

A split and harried second later, Nymeria withdraws, guilt jumping at her heart. I'm not my mother. She did not enjoy the pain, the subservience, of others—especially not her bonded.

Hertz crackles into bright life again, fire flowers burning up against the navy of his midnight coat, and her skin shivers and flickers in fright... except this time, the moment is marked by change. This time, she stays still, pride etched in the curl of her neck and in her bright, ruby eyes. And it would seem he mirrors her sentiment; the coy curl of his lips is echoed in her vivacious, vaguely sensuous gaze, the shake of her neck as she primps her growing, curly mane. She's not entirely sure of what she's trying to do, what message she seeks to communicate, but neither does she worry about it beyond Lil's occasional commentary.

If she didn't experiment now, when would she ever get a chance to?

"I can't decide if that makes you more or less boring," Nymeria smirks, the words callous and tone serendipitous . Beneath her shallow veneer of casual cruelty, though, hovers a thickening sense of curiosity. Surely he doesn't mean seriously? Eyes rake across his well-rounded form, searching for some sign of his truthfulness or dishonesty, while nostrils cusp wide, taking in his pungent reek. He doesn't smell like lightning, at least not overly...

The tip of his head does not go unnoticed, and it is followed by a flicker of relief on her part. For all her presumed confidence, she doesn't want to appear boring—she might not be the best with company, but she didn't want him gone, either. Besides, she could feel from the edge of growing conceit in the back of her mind Lilómiel's brief subservience could well be on the way to being lost should she not retain her dominance... and unfortunately, being unable to captivate someone—especially a horny young male, with her being a girl—well, it could prove disastrous.

"I'm not a nymph." The grullo responds, a faintly waspish note entering her tones and brows sharpening over her scarlet retinas. "My genes gave me magic, that's all."