It had not been her intention to drift from the trail south, not with a newcomer to Helovia and to her precious regime on her tail; but as she trekked opposite of north, feeling cautionary of what undead creatures might come crawling, teeth gnashing to feast on the succulent flesh of the foolish, her nostrils had flared and caught scent of something familiar. There was a question to her amaurotic eyes as she ground to uncertain halt, head swinging left and right in order to better pinpoint the thin tendril of scent she would forever associate with the pains of childbirth and teeth clenching hard on milk-swollen teats; a birth she had let slip in the depths of her memories. Had she not left him, long ago, to be raised under the feral eyes of Draqaris in a kingdom far away- it could certainly not be h i m, the Vile, the Evil, she sniffed on the breeze of gathering storm and wind?

Apologetic as the harlot could be, she turned to Morir, asking for a favor too early on in their cautionary allegiance, unable to keep the damnable hope out of her tones. To her endearing astonishment, she was given a yes- and she lengthened her step, turning towards the mountains that shielded the Land of the Sun from the normal sorts of trespassers.

Head lowered against the stiffening wind, she made agonizing way, filled with the intoxicating odors of maternity and youth, seeds of concern wrapping tendrils around the malnourished heart of hers. Teeth grit in stubborn refusal, as the snow begins to flurry, wet white flakes of shimmering ice and crystal, catching in ashen mane and gray tail; it is a mother's strength that stirs her now, a quickening desire to be reunited with the suckling babe she had abandoned abruptly and without goodbye. The hellion had brooded on it unhappily, that she was born as a mare rather than a stallion, forced to rear a child as Draqaris had gone off to continue fighting her wars of the empire- but it had come with an unrealized advantage, opportunity. What better chance did she have to carve and construct the perfect little demon, obedient to her wishes and a king in the making?

Respect and power, that is what she taught her silver-tongued prince, and then she deserted him with scarce a thought, ecstatic at the thought of leaving the milk-stealing monster; she had taught him through deprivation of the creamy liquid and through the caress of her teeth through his forelock, the drizzle of acid on his skull. Never enough to scar- but enough to teach him a lesson when required.

Would he remember that?
Was he even here?
Her thoughts abandon Morir as she searches the forest for Veil, her firstborn, whose father was no doubt DEAD by now. Draqaris was the only she had deemed suitable to mount her (though she had regretted it later when he began to press upon her messages of love.) There was family and unison and strength above all else- the strength to take what you want, to seize the moment, but not fucking l o v e.

DemonKing, she hears.
DEMONKING.
DEMONKING!

Her step swiftens to an idle canter, not wishing to betray the urgency that beats in her chest, the weakness, to Morir; her hooves crackle and crunch, loud even among the storm, as she moves towards the glints of ebon and night ahead, the clarion cries of a child-- and she bursts forth from the trees, skidding to halt, sending the unknown fungus-infested squirrel scurrying. "Veil!" Confutatis snaps, startled as much as she is euphoric at this strange and momentous event; for what other son would carry the blood on his mouth and the ice around his eyes?

The snow flurries.
Mongrel growls. She glances for the shape of Morir to melt from the trees; and she turns her gaze swiftly to her boy.

"Veil," she croons, softly, lids slithering shut over her eyes. "I have a friend of mine here; Morir. I know you are my little prince, but this is a place very different from the kingdom of Draqaris... mind your tongue." Slowly does she exhale, release the tension from spine and shoulders, and she steps forward, swallowing back the acid, towards her son; and she curls her neck over his, a gentle embrace, as gentle as one can get from a mothering murderer.