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Vicious. The smile that grew on his sooty lips, abhorrent and diabolical, sinful and unprincipled. But Confutatis was no stranger to savagery, to callousness and malice, instead embracing sadism and malapropism, like the mother fawning after her young child. Darkness, it blossomed in her heart and filled her limbs with a raw hatred, and with every conversation, every exchange of words, her bitterness strengthened, whatever good had been in her mind paint stripped away, revealing the inferno of maggots within. How cruel and repugnant she was; a rotting carcass swarmed by scavengers, a bucket of twisting, slimy red worms, a green-tinged head with the eyes missing nailed to a backboard as warning for trespassers. It was this mare, this feral monster, that was the scarecrow for all horrible things; it was she who scared off any who dare wander down towards the farmer's black-hearted fields, and the trespassers would flee, terrified of becoming what she was.
Closer the vermilion stallion moved, horn of glass shimmering softly in the shifting, dull light, eyes of indigo blue brilliant as stars among his visage of russet and ebony.
She wondered why he moved so close when his heart was filled with hate for her, and her kind, shamed without the silver jewel upon her brow. If she were of his race, crowned and glorious, would he revel in her nefarious presence? What would change in the twisted dynamics between them, that both repelled and brought them together? They were twins, siblings of blackened personality, and no doubt evil sins. Confutatis did not mind his proximity, not as it must both bother and entice him, and so the skull-faced mare bared her teeth in a wicked parody of a smile, nostrils quivering, inhaling the lusty scent wreathing him in winter's cold perfume. "Even the queen has her juggler," she smirked, velveteen lips parting softly and almost delicately, with a rougish hint to it that suggested dirtiness.
Her playful mood was running out quickly though, her wittiness running dry; still, the vindictive queen listened with a half-cocked ear, idly wondering if it was worth the trouble to pursue him for calling her mutt. No. She could not quite bring herself to care; truth be told, she enjoyed the company of the sanguinary stallion, his brains matching hers. "Déodat, my liege," Confutatis says mockingly, but mutely she fancies the elegance of his dark, svelte name. It suits him like a glove. "I am Confutatis, come from nowhere to leave to nowhere, wanderer and vagabond of the roads." The devil shines within her amber eye. "No need to be hasty in our departing; tell me where you hail from, so perhaps I can sneak in to see you, and we may find ourselves in a world of roguish and young trouble." Of course, it's not as if she simply knows Déodat resides within the Aurora Basin- neither does she know of the vicious Plague- but perhaps it's another sense that murmurs to her a warrior such as this would not reside within any loose-ruled, half-assed herd as there might be in other places.
This time, it's she who steps forward, testing him, seeing if he'll fall back.
CONFUTATIS
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[O] Magic in death and beauty in blood
