It your fault.
No, it's not. I was doing my best under the circumstances. What were you doing? Sitting around on your ass?
Your fault.
You're a fucking dragon. How well can you really contribute to the argument I was in the wrong?
Your fault.
Shut up.

A hint of a smile played around her lips as she glanced upwards toward Lilómiel, his ebony scales glistening in the sunlight. She hadn't thought his feral mind capable of grasping her tongue—but grasp it he had, albeit slowly. The way he spoke within her head, all low, slurring growls and a scrapbook collection of images and sounds, was both multiformed and intriguing. There was a strange pattern to it, a regularity she hadn't been able to decipher; as if the formation of his words was affiliated with the fluctation of his deeper emotions, the ones he kept hidden away from her. The intimacy... well, she felt as if perhaps she had some idea of what normal bonded pairs felt. She understood now—in a different way, one that put him on par as more of an equal than underling.

This was surely what Volterra spoke of... this growing affinity, this alliance, in heart, soul, and mind. They were becoming ever more intertwined, but no longer did she ache for difference, for individualism. With each passing day, the need for assertion and dominance diminished.

It was about time, too. It had been two years—two years! Two years since they had first bonded, first fallen into one another's head. And through the tangled, varied emotions they were finally beginning to string together something greater, some sort of unification. Even if he did disagree with her—and he did, day in and day out—past was the era where she felt the urge to bend him and break him, saddle and bridle his violence and sadism in her favor. Sometimes, she even thought she almost appreciated his opinion.

Almost.

Not on this. Since that disastrous issue with Ophelia, the desire for vengeance had grown, gnawed at her thoughts and at her heart. When she closed her eyes, she found herself dreaming of a bloodsoaked field, of fire and ash and ice. She did not repent, no matter what lies she forced between her teeth; she had been in the right, and nothing anybody said would change that. And since she doubted she could sway others to her narcissistic position, Nymeria debated on how best to discredit her aunt.

I should join a herd.
Except her aunt's ability to read her thoughts (and not even her immediate ones) had instilled a toxic fear in her—a paranoia that others might be able to peel apart her skin and dissect her every scheme. There was too much in her twisted cerebrum to hide—and how did one hide thoughts anyways?

Lilómiel cried out across the salt plains, his shriek ringing for miles.
Her head jerked up, called to attention by her companion's (exceedingly verbal) warning. Ahead stood a gilded man, decorated and golden. Red eyes narrowed in careful thought; her step stuttered, dwindled, to a halt. Who was he?