One moment she's laying there, still like some wretched dead beast, fantasizing about future conquests and the curves of beautiful women, and the next she's snatched out of her dazed reverie and future wet dreams. Something, quite literally, snatches at the crest of her neck, pulling back only a second later to wrench a small section of frosted hairs back and -

- RIP! -

Oh.

... Oh.

Now, lets back up a bit. Rhiannon had never been a vain creature, especially when she didn't give a rats ass how her hair was in a constant state of tangles and knots. She cared not for the dust that seemed to perpetually coat her brindled hide, but... She also knew that she looked good. A vixen, a siren, a sly, dangerous thing of coiled muscle and feminine charm. Or, 'charm'. Whatever.

So, when her 'attacker' managed to pull out a small chunk of knotted mane, Rhiannon wasn't too angry. The action did, however, cause her considerable bulk to hoist itself upright, two-toned eyes snapping open and flashing dangerously as she whirled towards her attacker. Teeth barred, head tucking down towards her muscled breast to point spiraled horns at her opponent, legs tense and ready to attack, frozen-silver and molten-gold eyes locking on whoever had the balls to disturb her from her daydreaming...

Only for confusion, genuine, gob-smacked confusion to settle in.

... What the fuck is that?

A colt, obviously. Dark as the night, perhaps darker, with a horn upon his brow... And, subsequently, his bratty mouth wrapped around a lock of her mane. That train of thought, however, only derailed when Rhiannon spotted wings sprouting from the colt's back, and her teeth gnashed in great displeasure.

Now, she was no fool. Rhiannon knew that things were changing. Times were changing. No longer was the Basin home to only her proud brethren, her horned kin, but these winged miscreants and the hornless heathens had joined their ranks and poisoned their system. It made her sick, made her wish she could vomit... But, alas. She couldn't, and since she wasn't a Queen in their mountainous home, she had no say.

Still.

Violence was frowned upon, and Rhiannon didn't think that she could get away with plucking this colt's wings from his back without anyone else taking notice.

"... You've got a lot of nerve, disturbing a lady while she's sleeping," Rhiannon stated on a bristled breath, "And biting me, even. That isn't very nice." A slow, sly, sickeningly sweet smile spread across the brindled devil's lips, eyes flashing. "What a small thing you are, and all alone... Do you have a name?"

Rhiannon had no idea if she should try and discipline the half-blood. She took one step forward, then another, her motion stalking, creeping, seething. How could she discipline it? Bite it back? Rip out a tuft of his own mane and see how he liked it? Or... Or maybe ripping out some of his feathers would suffice? Oh. Oh. Maybe... Maybe if she could get close enough, just a bite...

"Well? Do you?"