The wolf can taste victory- and it reeks of decay, unseemly blights to fester and flower on polished mahogany skin; and she smiles, she leers, bares her teeth in a snarl of joyous cruelty. Does the pretty girl like the ruin she deals to her virgin coat? Does she now begin to realize her idiocy, the peril to be found in facing a GOD, a lady of death and shadow? The Queen of Skulls watches the mare deteriorate before her eyes, and she would sing of her joy in her raven's croak- but she is elated too soon, for the Saddlebred, who seemed equal parts astonished and abashed by this show of sorcery charges on, through veils of corruption and gangrene. Ears flick forwards; bestial eyes widen in what must be, presumably, shock; and she does find, to her contempt, she is admiring of the fool's bravery. Yet for all the respect she may withhold for the clown-faced sorcerer, it made no difference. Today, the traitorous bitch would find herself befallen, throat to be clutched between the poisonous jaws of a monster, and she had best begin praying for the mercy that would not be given.

Charcoal lips peel back into gruesome grimace, ears pinning once again to sinuous neck; and her mongrel croons to her in the back of her chaotic mind, a keening trill of encouragement as he watches on, not interfering as the quean, the harlot black and heartless stands ready and light, graceful on her keratins.

Hooves clatter and rattle, the empty sounds of impending bruises and batterings; but it does not matter to HER, not to a queen, not to a MONSTER. Feral, wild, unnerving, she awaits, weaving cranium back and forth to keep the mare in line with her good eye; and then the Necromancer is almost upon her still-standing body. Do not fear- even as a statue, she is alive, nerves writhing beneath her ashen pelt- she rears, nostrils flared, jaws working to shout and blaspheme, but no words come forth (for she must be quiet, must be silent for fear of interlopers.) It is a small rear, more half than not, simply to bring herself ever higher than the smaller woman, and as she does so, the succubus twists towards Seele, hooves reaching up to scrape and bruise at the mare's upper forelegs or even the flesh of her shoulders. As she moves, the mare's crystal horn, originally reaching towards her barrel, should find itself scraping along the point of her hip. Confutatis winces as this does happen; teeth grit, foam bubbles from her lips, biting down on the squeal which arises from her chest.

The wolf will not allow a coyote of low-level intelligence to get better of her.

Dropping down onto the crystalline floor, she cowkicks towards the Clownface, not seeking a particular aim, simply desiring to land a blow on that tender dark flesh, or better yet, a joint of the foreleg; even as she attempts, the supple Saddlebred knocks into her hindquarters with a shoulder. This, in itself, is not altogether a blow she considers particularly devastating- a bruise, surely, no worse, but as she stumbles, her hooves find no grip on the glassy floor.

Her feet skid beneath her, and to the demon-daughter's vulgar horror, there, not so far away at all is her damn companion, sitting like the lazy fucker he is, nibbling mildly at the sheathe of his claws-
The mare jerks away from her companion, the feral animal she has wedded to her heart, narrowly bringing a hoof over his head, hind legs sinking beneath her; and she heaves herself back upwards on her forehand immediately after. There is a wrench, a pop, and she clamps down on a squeal of pain as her right foreleg buckles. Too fucking bad, she tells herself, find your feet before you have a horn through your throat. It would not do to crumble now when the crown is close and the taste of the Necromancer's ichor is on her lips; it would not do to wither and fade when she was winning.

She stands and waits one last time for the bitch to advance, for surely she would- and the Clownface would only find herself breaking against the walls of the wolf's castle, unable to cut through the defenses.

Confutatis patiently stays, watching for the foe to charge.

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731/800 words
4/4 + 0/1