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Slate eyes rest heavily on her face- no, her lips, her poison and acid- and she itches beneath the weight, jubilant and encumbered by the heaviness, wondering at his thoughts of her (does he think of her as a worthy future Queen? He does, certainly, she cannot believe it!) He speaks, the rolling avalanche of his throat pleasant on her ears, gruff affirmation, and her crown dips in swooping nod, swallowing back the corrosive slime on her lips, even pleased as she is by his simple understanding. Confutatis' throat convulses as she feels the familiar pain of the burn corroding at her windpipe; but an agony worth having, and she responds to his quiet declaration slyly, eyelids drifting low to hood her dire orbs. "Many have magic in Helovia, even if they lack the balls to use it." The questions hangs wordlessly at the tip of her tongue, awaiting confirmation or declination of any presence of magic in Tyradon's bloodstream (if he had it, he must hide it well- astute of him, an opponent would never know what he might withhold.)
The muscles keen and close to the bones of neck tense, and she draws her skull up tall, ears slanting back as she pulls a hind leg high beneath her, warning of a kick to this stallion. Disappointment glints in the scurrilous depths of the hellion's eyes: she did not abhor racism, but thought it folly, for what did looks matter if their hearts rested in the rightly wrong place? Ah, but then, Isilme- with Nieque and Cinnoru and Sepagus.
Mouth parts to offer reply, fluid and rasping. "Unicorns and pegasus, equines put aside. I would refrain from such bias in our search- I see no wrong in pegasus or unicorn, so long as they serve well and faithfully to our future, our cause." Ears tilt forth, forgivance in the tapering lines of her audits, as she returns her gracious attention to him.
In the wallowing depths of her mind Mongrel flounders, furious at Tyradon's audacity and dragon, his open racism, and it flows yonder through to her mind, where she ignores his opinions utterly.
She shares in his excitement at the conspiracies to come, but her face is drawn sharp with the depth of her thought. Certain as she may be with the future glory of their union, she wonders if she can dare to trust him- not with her life, not yet, one day? Head tilts serenely once again, studious glint in copper gold eyes, gaze flicking upwards to the forest green of his dragon, a hint of jealousy evident in her facial features, though no comment springs unbidden to her lips. The dragon emerald is so much more than her mongrel- the Mongrel chafes at her insincerity with him, the careless tendrils of thought she sends to caress the bitter depths of zealous frustration lapping in his mind, who dares to weave dreams of horror in her mind when they sleep, a horrific companionship of evil and murder, slaughter and death.
"Death to those who dare defy the Regime," she exhales, wicked in every aspect, stepping forth to trace her muzzle against the angled planes of his fierce face, stopping just millimeters short of coddling the darkness of his muzzle, breathing out through her nostrils in equine friendship, asking him wordlessly for his mutual companionship.
CONFUTATIS
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