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Eyes of steel and silver race upwards to settle on hers; muscles coil beneath her in wariness of his gaze, shifting weight- she does not like having horses meeting her line of sight, when all should bow to her, no matter their age nor ranking. She reminds herself, resolutely, that this will be her Dragon King when they climb over battered bones and broken backs to their throne of blood and ruin. It will not do to be lacking in trust when they must uphold each other in the days and weeks to come, and so she forces tension from her pores, settling loosely to watch. And listens she does, to her heightening astonishment to a story of warlocks and sorcerers, of mercy; her head tips in gentle question, wonderment of this curiosity. "Mercy has no place on a battleground..." she speaks, her voice a hoarse thing of wicked knives and instruments of death, lazy grin peeling away charcoal from craggy teeth, "but I've imagined you've learned your lesson." Her gaze flits to the winged drake emerald; her eyes narrow slightly, calculating, imagining, and offers condolences to the dragon. "I am sorry, Cynder, I imagine it must be even more frustrating for you than Tyradon here."
She wonders if she should advance, to place a kiss on the softness of his charcoal cheeks.
Confutatis refrains. Tyradon is already sexist, and it would be intolerable for her to be falling over herself hoping to get fucked; lips twist into unsightly sneer at the thought of milk-sucking children, and Mongrel's disgust comes electric through their bond. This is a union born for war and combat, for death and ruination, not an alliance for love, not for the weight of his hips on her hindquarters, nor any other abysmal facade of romance.
The succubus seethes with glory and amusement, listening to the repeat of her words on his tongue, a malignant mare caught up in the ecstasy of having someone she could call as ally; her ashen tresses drift over 'heterochromic' eyes, hiding the glint of feral jubilance glittering in those yellow depths. Demon Queen. She savors it, revels in it, in the greatness of their pairing; a King of Dragons and Queen of Demons, who would dare to face against them? Where they walked, others would fall back in uncertainty and fear, cower and curl away, duck heads and TREMBLE at their might. All will hail them: DEMON QUEEN AND DRAGON KING! Wolves stalking among sleeping sheep, with each kill an easy one, and their teeth would rip and tear, and his dragon would burn, and her sadistic mongrel would fill their dreams up with nightmares.
Ambitions filled with images of anarchy and tyranny choke her throat of words.
She quivers.
"Once," she offers as response, eyelids shuttering across eyes. "Several times. I was a conqueror. They did not know how to handle the poison of my magic, they did not know me. I pillaged and stole and built an empire, an army which marched into the flames of war and always obeyed, who feared their monarch. When I came to the last city, unable to dominate it, I snatched their boy king Draqaris, a mighty warlord for his age, took from him his seed, and birthed him a son, Veil, ambassador of strength. He was forced to join me, lest the city turn against him for 'breeding' with the enemy. The last city fell." Her voice is a cruel sneer, low and lacking harmony; the succubus refrained from telling Tyradon of the magnetic strength of the young warlord, his silent power which emanated from his very bones; "I tore the child from my stomach as soon as it was old enough, and handed it off to a mother who lost her foal and whose teats were heavy with milk. They had a hard time healing me after that, but... fuck it if I were to suckle some puny child. Education of dominance I instilled in the boy, and of diplomacy, but I had no time to waste on belittling foals when I had a kingdom to run and uprisings to stamp down."
She wonders what he'll think of her (cruel to her children? wicked and lusty?) before she puts the bothersome thoughts out of her mind. I am not a broodmare, the hellion reminds herself sharply; I am not some lowly mare to meekly spread her legs to the first stallion to encroach on my boundaries. If he thinks he can take me so easily, he'll find himself dead before the morning.
There is bristling hostility in her eyes as she flicks her gaze upwards, daring him to make comment on her lacking maternal side.
As they ease away from the subject she considers sensitive, she eases again, giving a careless shrug. "Yes," she answers, brows twitching upwards in a movement that well conveys her [lacking] interest in the subject.
Mongrel's ears flatten to his skull as the dragon chars the mouse (how dare she?!)- his lips curl back into an aggressive snarl- wasting food of all things. Yet as she rips the mouse apart, tossing him one half, the expression softens into one of quizzical curiosity. It is tentatively, her gem tucked beneath his paw, that he reaches forward to nibble at the meat; and it is to his surprise that he enjoys it. Crimson and scarlet drip from between curved incisors as he rips and tears, feasting on the cooked treat.
Maybe she won't be so bad after all, the kitsune decides.
CONFUTATIS
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