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The dragon king's laughter is cold, but she thinks his kisses would be colder. They would be dry as the winter air and they would still leave burns on her charcoal skin; they would be full of painful passion and devoid of the heated embrace of love— but she does not need infatuation, she needs a king of iron and a sire of warrior lordlings. She turns her gaze away from him, neck curling alluringly; she does not want Tyradon to see the starvation in her eyes, the wanting for his weight on her hips. Even poised away from him, she listens, to his talk of dead boys and destroyed identities; she tries to imagine him as a young prince, hungry for a crown, and she can envision it easily, but not as easily as she imagines him now on a throne of blood and ruin. They were to be the rulers, the conquerors and vanquishers of Helovia— the wolf was sick with want of it, of power, and her mouth was dry and nerves voltaic beneath her obsidian skin.
There is a multitude of singing warbles and trillings; her ears snap forward. What emotion stirred, snake-like beneath her charcoal cloak, she crushes beneath a figurative hoof; there is no room for familiarity in their partnership (not yet.) The harlot turns her skull to the grass-green dragon with jaded scales and her companion, tall and lean and splendidly wolf-like. It is found to her humbling surprise that the drake has moved towards her; a ripple of astonishment traverses through her as the six-limbed draconian rubs up against her fetlock. A faint smile, far more endearing than any former leer, plays at her sinning lips; and she bends down, swallowing back her foaming acid, seeking to brush her muzzle ever so gently over the verdant beast's skull.
Their conversation continues, to princes and kingdoms left behind, all while Cynder cavorts at the rather bemused mare's hooves; the warbringer does not respond to the first retelling of her grim tale. The wolf is thankful for that— she did not particularly want to share the details and finery of those days. When she had knifed through Helovia, she had chosen to put that behind, and she was not one to loll about regretting her former actions.
The wolf watches Tyradon slyly, toying over the request he presents to her (although it is not much of a request); an askance to show him her magic, sorcery of poison and acid, infection and rot. "If you demand, dragon king," she croons, yet it is clear she relishes the idea, and in her quarrelsome eyes she begrudges him admiration. This must be, certainly, one way to win her bizarre affection and her bewitching loyalty; bravery in face of pain, poised in such a way she causes the affliction, so she may in turn show her strength and fortitude. She approaches, black-souled and corrupt of heart, drawn tall yet still not quite so titanic as Tyradon; the golden coin of her useful eye watches his face in case of change in expression. "It will hurt," she tells him, voice low and sultry, crushed velvet and rust.
And teeth sink into the flesh of his shoulder, just beneath the wither; there she grooms him, bathes him with acid, rasps her infectious mouth over taut ebony skin.
The wolf with draws, backing from the warmonger, hooves scraping over stone and soil. Her mongrel comes to curl around her hooves, tails flicking in slight contempt.
It is time to part, his mind tells her, and she is inclined to agree.
"We should take our leave," Confutatis sings to him, her voice low and wicked. "There will be time to sin again, but now we gather our armies." Jaw works as she smiles, not a leer, not a thing of evil, but a smile of cold sincerity and hardened determination. "Meet me above in two weeks from now with your followers, where no sane horse would venture- we will not be heard in dust and ash, midways between here and the Threshold in the Meadow we roved through."
CONFUTATIS
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