She caught glimpse of a nod, an inclination of silver skull (in deference? Capitulation?) and thin threads of words small compared to the crushing enormity of the black. It was question, outrageous and near-inconceivable, yet flattering beyond compare; a sort of heat gathers in her breast, hotness in her scarred cheeks. Was this not what she longed for? Recognition, acknowledgement? A silver tongue hesitates to formulate unwilling answer- should she run with it, bask in the glory of divinity- before she relents, for such claims would no doubt hinder her should there truly be such truculent beasts as immortals.

"No," the mare sighs, eyelids sliding shut over cracked and fractured eyes."Nor am I vassal. I am made of but the same flesh as you, skin and bone and knotted sinew; for all my audacious dreams and grandious hopes, immortality shall not be granted to one such as I." Her whisper is a soft one, audible likely to only to Africa and not to those farther away; a sinister longing festering beneath the ebon skin.

And then- more claims! More orders, demands, break-bone loud in this weighted quiet. Startled nostrils flare wide, drawing in the ragged scent, unable to place the sound of the trespasser's voice- eyes narrow in contemplation, ears twist and fold to skull, and lips pull back into a savage leer. Who is he to steal from her, to grasp at what is not his? He does not offer his name- does he fear her? He should, he should. There is little to be seen of him in this darkness, but his voice rings with precocious bravery entombed with righteous anger, and there is a ripple of movement as he steps before the other intruding mare. Ahh... so he is a paladin, the worst of all horses, unable to be reasoned with, to be drawn within reach of her grasping acid teeth, a champion like... Apollo. There is an ominous jerk to the stiff set of her skull, the slippery slither as her silver tail whisks over jet flanks, the crest of her neck curling eloquently.

"What makes you so certain of danger?" There is a way to her speaking; an artistic form of linguistics, a rasp and exhale rather than spoken bold and brave, the tones of an individual accustomed to all falling into rapt attention upon hearing her. "What is it I have done to you, Paladin, that says my intentions are to hurt a mare?" Her voice sharpens as a knife with a whetstone drawn over it's blade, cutting through the darkness, ringing with intolerance.

"I am not... you fucking fool."

The mare draws close to her, and Confutatis quivers ever so subtly, the Mongrel at her feet slipping tight next to her forelegs. Audits twitch, and most remarkable, there is a stirring of a sensation, rising from the pit of her shrivelled little heart- surely Confutatis, war-monger and hellion, does not feel pity for this mare and her companion? "That would be my belief... but I do not claim to know everything," and she cuts her eyes most rudely towards Ciceron, lips curling into cruel sneer, disdain writ upon her every feature as sight of him. "Then again, I admit I have withdrawn from society as of late..." and her voice falls flat and quiet, hardly discernible.

"But I must implore to you, I do not mean you any harm. This I swear."