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She is made of cold darkness, frigid shadow and ebony flame; harken her poisoned words, heed for vile advice, for she is little more than a rabid dog waiting to spring on the uneasy prey. Indeed, there is even foam that drips from her mouth- normally, that is, and nothing about the darkness is normal anymore- an acid that will slough skin from bones and burn anything it touches.
Burn, child, burn.
With every tilt of her head and glint of her eye, she exposes her unnatural interior, the bizarreness of her. Barren of the emotions that kindle warm fires in warm hearts, she is little more than a gruesome statue. What drives her machinery is not the battery of something to live for, but hunger and passion and feral strategy; ambition and aggression and the need to conquer. Her heart is fashioned from metal and her mind's piping, tubing, and general together-ness is half-melted from the fire of love- love only for decay and blackness and shadows, death and gore and blood, war and battles and fights. What is Confutatis but a villain of inexplicable proportions, a warmonger and scavenger?
The silver stallions stutters and pauses, and a cruel smile grows on her skinny face. Even as her charcoal lips part of deliver a verbal assault, they are interrupted. "Lucky cobwebs," she murmurs, eyes dancing with a hellish light.
When the grass grows beneath her feet, her stone-ebon face shatters for the briefest of moment. Hunger; but not of the kind in her empty belly. It is greed, covetous; a yearning for more, a hot desire. Lips curl, exposing yellowed teeth. Hototo, she muses, and she keeps the name carefully, cradling it to her memory. It is not a name she will forget; and chances are, Confutatis is not a horse you want to be remembered by. Still, quick as the wicked expression came, it is gone, returning to the serene facade, even if her eyes still sparkle with Satan's light, even if her very aura murmurs of slaughter. Her sooty lips hide her teeth once more, and she lowers her head, cropping the grass.
Indeed the grass tastes of spring.
Yet her eyes are not at rest; they settle on his curling rams' horns and ease over his wings, over the heavy muscle speaking of a great build yet the surprising elegance in his step. He is painted in the earth's palette, and his voice could sing whatever he wishes; and she wonders if the hybrid is more important than he looks. The horse and his dragon are forgotten, unimportant in this turn of events.
A fox, a kitsune leaps into the midst of the little group. She shakes her head, pacing back a few steps, and tips her skull testily. There is a girl, a young woman. For a moment, she assesses the new, possible threat. Then her scarred body relaxes. No harm in a child.
"Should I offer my names to strangers?" Lady Death purrs, eyes dark. "I think not. Still, cobwebs and grass, and little mare, call me what you will."
CONFUTATIS
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