Teeth clip short dry blades; the charcoal hellion wanders in an idle path as she grazes, fore-hoof occasionally scraping away at the crust of snow to expose the bitter yellow grass beneath. She eats to keep up the strength in her wearied muscles, to keep the padding of fat thick over her thinning hips. It would not do help in her plans and plots, wasting away to a thin slip of a mare, and so she ate. There was a peaceful boredom to the mundane act; it tied her to mortality, to simplicity, gave her a quiet in the mind that she did marvel at. Hooves creak and crack through the frozen snow as she moves- despite the frigid cold of winter, she is fluid, liquid shadow dripping over minuscule, creamy flakes. At her feet, her mongrel slithers over rock and stiff, unyielding white, creeping in the manner of a scuttling spider. Together they strike an imposing picture, midnight silhouettes cutting sharp against the pale robin-egg sky.

They swim, languid, in one another's thoughts. Their ideas are the melting of North Atlantic to South, where it is impossible to tell one from another; the tides whisper of death and decay, rot and ruin, but also of less negative connotations, family individuals named October and a Dragon King named Tyradon, of a jigsaw smile and the round curve of her impregnated belly. She never ended up talking to her half-sister; surely she must have born her foal by now? Her ears flick in her grazing to betray her vague discomfort. The strange harlot had always been inclined as broodmare rather than queen; perhaps that was not surprising, that she had been fucked by whoever was brave enough to take a demon-daughter. But what of the foal? Could she even handle that sort of... responsibility? A mental shrug ripples through their minds. Why did she bother herself with such thoughts? October was October, she could raise an Oblivion relation properly.

Their thoughts turn slowly towards Sheba and Veil, Morir and whomever he might have found by now. Of companionship, she did not need nor want; admit it she would not, but the practice of deceit and trickery, of luring and beguiling, was a tiresome matter, and for someone to show up meant yet another to persuade.

Confutatis exhales quietly, lifting her painted skull. Eyelids flicker over amber orbs; she flicks her ashen tail over onyx coat and gives a shiver. In silence she watches as her kitsune flits away, dancing over white drifts, chasing after scrawny mouse and scurrying critters. He has thinned out since emerging from the caves as well- she did not like to admit it, but the feed had been far better in the Heart's sanctuary than up in the light of the surface. It does not matter, she thinks to herself. Here she was, and she was not going to go digging beneath the surface of the earth again.

There is the thud of hooves on the soil, and she wonders, thoughts running along similar path as his, who it will be. Morir, with his three crowns, Tyradon, with his dragon green, Veil, with his bleeding mouth? Or a stranger... no, not an unknown civilian. The faint recognition of her companion springs to the forefront of her mind, stealing with it images of snow and silver, polished ebony ovals and a horn of ice. An ear flicks in faint annoyance; she has no desire for company right now. She hopes, idly, that the Fallen will wander away with that lost look in his dark eyes; but for the sake of the story that will not be so, because the sound of his great hooves louden.

Contemplations of rudeness swill in her wicked skull, of turning him down, of leaving without word, of simply shutting all words between tongue and roof of mouth. Of attacking him, savaging him, letting her poison magic drip out over him and settle in his skin and rot him there; she wonders how he would look with his white pelt stripped. She liked them better without their cloaks. They had no secrets with every twisted vein exposed and every scarlet vessel cut open to the world; gruesome lips contort to vile grin at the thought. He would have pretty bones, silver and ash bones; she would engrave them and draw skulls on his skull, tattoo them with his own blood. Then her molars click and clamp, grinding together in remembrance.

I am trying to make a difference, she tells herself. It is not appropriate for me to attack as I will any longer.

Gaze reluctantly drifts upwards as she lifts her skull, cranium tilting to mirror his actions, eyes following the hypnotic swish of his tail. Fallen, she might have answered; but her charcoal lips remain sealed, sinuous skull moving ever higher, demanding, challenging, before it lowers. Vapor curls from her nostrils. "Fallen," she murmurs. "Fallen angel with cobwebs in his mane and snow on his feet," she continues, eying him, stepping away from him, suddenly struck by his size. Acidic mouth suddenly shakes into smile, and she takes two steps forward for the one he has pushed her back. "Names are power, Fallen, do you remember that? Other things are too. Power is power; lies are power; the truth is power. Which weapon would you wield?"