She is disdain wrapped up in onyx coat; menacing in her obsolete darkness, nostrils cusped wide to drink in the hard scent of sweat and testosterone, the press of bodies hot and heady. Audits twitch and clasp forward, tipping forth to catch sound of disrespecting snorts and contemptuous face. Daring of him, is it not, to be so loose-heartedly a r r o g a n t around a sovereign of death and decoy? She lets slip tendrils of magic from her bodice, seething laces of black magic to curl and caress the crystalline floor, watching for command from Confutatis to spring at the stallion whose coat so unfortunately resembles BLOOD. Soon that crimson will peel back from sinew, suddenly frail muscle decomposing on bones- he will cry out, beg for mercy, but she gives no such thing to corrupt kings. "Oh, gods, I am so fucking sorry." And she smiles- WICKED- a decomposing, disintegrating thing of foul acid lips and yellow teeth.
Veins pulsate beneath her skin of onyx and obsidian, light sheen of sweat breaking out over midnight coat; she is vicious and malignant, vile temptress, scarred and aged yet still brutally beautiful. Yes, harlot as he so aptly put it (she thinks to herself); or rather succubus, devil wrapped in mortal flesh who lays by men during their nightly sleeps. He gave in so easily, she can do it again. Slay him, strip him of that crimson cloak (she could wear as a queen does cape), shatter that crystal horns beneath her hooves, crush him.
Mongrel's agreement surges through their bond, painted images of torturous cruelty.
Ecstatic in their wild.
"I will be a queen, Déodat," she exhales, expression unreadable, blank-faced, slate features. "Regardless if I have your sexual approval or not, little boy."
He will die by the end of tonight.
Ears slant back in his declarations of unwanted companionship. She will not leave so easily; she is not a little girl who leaves at command, she is a war goddess, monster of decay, crowned with her atrocious acts and armed with her mouth full of poison and black magic. "Attack me, Déodat." she bequeaths him, ears pinning to tangled mane and spine. Her armor materializes- strips of tattered black leather, white bones glinting bright in the dark- over hide grayed with healed wound. "Stop your marish complaints, which are tiresome on the ear; ATTACK ME, halt in your tirade." Supple steel muscles ease and relax, shifting beneath a rippling coat of obsidian, easy on her feet, devil-eyed and acid-mouthed. She doubts his bravery- he would not charge into her desecrating arms, but she would wrap them around his throat if he refused, choke him, THROTTLE him, pull him to the ground beneath her wicked hooves.
She ignores his comments on magic and sorcery nefarious and malignant, and she awaits the oncoming of blood and bruises.
"Fight me, you coward."
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