Her thoughts were not where they should be (at least, she didn’t think so, but she didn’t know what she should be thinking anyways); instead of concocting and fabricating ideas of sensuous ruin she was stuck on a loop of frustrated destruction, seeking some way to devastate the corpses making a mockery of life around her. (Stupid fucking fuckers.)  Listen to them—laughing, thumping, humping away, and she was here, all four hooves planted in the ground—why was she here?

Lips part, red eyes glisten; why did this happen?

Lilómiel crooned something soft and sweet to her, claws pressing on her withers. She could feel his fear seeping in through the nooks and crannies of her mind, his tender and misplaced concern feeding through the labyrinth of her musings. Why are you afraid? Except she already knew the answer.

What would happen if she just attacked? Tore at their blood, ripped it from their every orifice—boiled the snow beneath their feet, until they were screaming, until they were crying?

Why did she always think such things? Why couldn’t she be fucking normal?

(Because you’re fated to be more than normal.)

Nymeria exhaled slowly, shaking her head mournfully. The movement, although strangely comforting in nature, did little to dislodge the violence rooted in her breast. Instead of action, she took to inaction, picking up a lazy walk among the twisting shadows. The lithe sway and curve of the darkness—swelling and deflating, swirling and shifting—danced upon her spine and shoulders, rubbing the edges of her away until she was more shadow than life.

It felt strange to be alone when she was surrounded by… pairings.

Like a satellite in orbit, she found herself gravitating towards someone else. (What am I doing Lilómiel?) The stranger didn’t seem to be looking for company, resting beneath an old oak, and here Nymeria came anyways: intrusive, despite her discreteness, crude, despite her grace.

Nym pitied the woman for having to deal with her when she seemed so content otherwise.

A sly and cheeky smile uncoiled across her ashen lips; her ears pricked forwards, not quite casual in their movement. The wolf tilted her head, driving in along an angle towards the stranger, a long-legged saunter (swagger?) to bring herself parallel to the stranger’s hip. Despite a practically bewildering urge to be—well, be a bitch—Nymeria kept herself contained with a steely hand, preparing herself for a silk touch.

For a minute she stood in silence, casting her own red gaze out along the delicate pond, and then she tentatively cast a line into the sea, looking to hook the unicorn beside her.

“Do you feel alone?”