What the fuck?
The filly turns, gleeful. "Fuck," she repeats. She knows the word is naughty - Mother's said it once or twice, when she walked into a tree or tripped over a root, but she'd always looked sheepish afterwards and sternly warned both daughters not to repeat it. Saying the Bad Word fills Oizys with a dirty delight, a delicious knowledge that she's said something bad.
That's nasty. Little darling demoness furrows her brow crossly, and Ker looks up from her meal to squawk her displeasure at the disturbance. Child's tail ripples around her ankles, tickling her flesh with the furry tip, and she looks at the colt with a frown. He's larger, older than her, stronger, and no doubt free of the Cough - but his skull-marked face is quite naked, which puzzles the girl, who knows only unicorns. "Where's your horns?" Her voice is rough, abrupt, rather unchildlike. Her frown makes the harpy-scars on her face twist horrifically, and she turns slightly to display them fully to the boy. If he thinks the dead fawn is disgusting, wait until he sees the grotesquely ruined right side of her face, with its livid scars and damaged pink flesh. So young, yet so broken! They are still sore, and if she bends a certain way she feels them pull, bringing back the memories of how close she came to the sweet caress of death.
That's gross, he continues. Oizys grows quite tired of his protestations. "So's your Ma," she says, immature, puerile, but satisfying. She glances back down to the fawn, to the glimmering innards and juicy, juicy meat. "All that in there is in you, too. S'that make you gross?" She tilts her head, smug, questioning, deeply curious by this naked-faced boy with his declarations of grossness.
Just as well he didn't see her slay that wolf. He might well have keeled over unconscious with the shock of it, the poor delicate little flower.
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[O] i solemnly swear that i am up to no good
