She seethes, poison and ruin ensnared and entrapped within the confines of her skin black as sin; perhaps this is what makes her foolhardy, so wild and feral as to forget her calculations and tactics. Heedless of what she should do and what she should not, she charges, without thought for where to aim, how to prepare for his response, how to counter-attacker his attacks; there are the reverberations of her hooves on glass and diamond, the rattle of her dry lungs, the storms of ebony cloud and silver lightning that curl and cradle around her foul heart. It is not good enough. What does she see but the blood prince, cloaked in scarlet and snow, evading her; she tries, oh she tries, to twist, to change her assault, but to no avail- she is, alas, doomed in this regard.

It rages through her, winter winds through the crags of her mountainous mind, howling loud as the wolves, snarling and snapping around nook and cranny; failure. Contempt and disdain writhes in the soulless hollow of her empty ribcage- how dare she bring shame to the name of her distant fathers, the Womanizer and Demon King? She was their daughter, and it was not only her right but her duty to prove them proud, to reinforce their might and strength into the minds of the mortal men; she was the beast beneath their beds, the monster in the closet, the simmering eyes in the darkness; she must trim and cut her obsidian shape into perfect form; she was to be a quean, and losing to a lowly crimson lord would be prohibited.

   Yet here Confutatis was, not landing a singular blow upon the dapper hide of his.

   Unlike Déodat, upon her failure of a charge she does not halt; she slows from gallop to canter, wary of the treacherous footing underneath her. Each step is picked with care, lest her keratins slip out from beneath her, which would be not only a humbling embarassment but something of which would incline her to failure (which she will NOT tolerate, not from this mangy hornheaded cur- she would fuck her companion before that happened.) The mare's nares widen, and she drinks in the musky air- she hears the tattoo of his hooves behind her, the drums of war, and she lets drift a wicked smile over her lips. Does he truly think to outrun her? He is fat and tall, a broadsword, whereas she is slim and graceful as a knife between his ribs; she wants to know how close he'll come, and she slows as the passage narrows ahead, letting him come tantalizing near to her hips- she wonders if she is in heat, for her thighs are aching and all she can smell is him and winter.

   Hooves dig into the glossy surface of the floor, and she slithers to ungraceful halt, ducking down her cranium and lashing upwards with her hind legs, towards his face and mouth full of pretty white ivories. He would not look so handsome when he found himself missing a tooth or two, she was confident- and that was rather good, because she abhorred him and all the sultry attractiveness to his artistic musculature. Alongside the simple pleasure of imaging his jagged ruined teeth, she well remembered the pain the Merciful had dealt her with a crushing blow to her skull; the crack as the bones beneath her sleek pale face fractured beneath the weight of the damage. A split skull was no laughing matter- it was a month of headaches and gritted teeth, a month of lingering and lurking in dark shadows and hoping the throbbing would go away sooner rather than later.
   A scandalous grins flowers on her lips at the thought of the bastard brought to his knees in agony.

   Her mongrel is not useless as she plays a sly game of catch-me-if-you-can; he creeps and scuttles along the crystalline walls, all glimmering eyes and bared teeth, weaving and painting images of devious intent; but not yet, it would not happen yet, he would keep his nightmarish illusions in hand until his compatriot bequeathed him of it or was in need.

   Hallucinations, however, are little compared to the Queen Bitch's own sorcery: nefarious tendrils of magic that curl and crawl out from the bucking mare, drawn towards flesh, veils of rot and ruin aiming to desecrate and destroy, devour and annihilate the succulent flesh. Would he scream? He had not screamed before- but then she had not been so angry, so full of justified fury; before she had not wanted to peel back his skin and caress the inner working of organ and heart, to slather his ribcage in the poison of her mouth and crack down on bone and chew on sinew.