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The greeting to the companion served well, as she hoped it would; the little lion's chest puffed out proudly, and one side of her mouth curls into a lean, feral smile; she did love companions, with their unpredictable and yet so understandable natures. To some degree, all- or almost all- were ignored; not necessarily by their compatriots, but by those their companions called friends or family, even enemies. For that, she pitied them to a certain degree, being well-accustomed to the want of attention, to be overlooked and written off by the populace. Yet she, she learned from those experiences, fought harder and ever more bitterly for leadership, for her tyrannies, determined to be renowned, to become legend for her deeds. Companions had no choice; they were tied and bonded to their unyielding compatriots, doomed to be forever Nyx's companion, Tyradon's companion, Confutatis' companion, never the other way around.
The demon daughter's ear gives a twitch but there is nothing to draw her attention outloud; no, it is in her head, the waves of scorn lustily running aground on her shores, pissy tides of arrogance and annoyance- her mongrel, screaming in her thoughts, demanding audience, snarling and snapping at her to give him attention he deserves if she thinks so.
As always, the bitch ignores him (hypocrite.)
Nyx accepts the compliment with enough courtesy, and Confutatis' smile slithers from her lips. It leaves her looking, somehow, far less sinister than before, far more normal; before her muzzle was all foam and dripping acid, enough to make her look rabid, but now she was simply a mare (an intimidating bitch, but still just a mare.) The virgin goes quiet, perhaps waiting for better explanations, more detailed descriptors of what will be expected of her; but the wolf does not bother giving life to the seething mass of thoughts her mongrel chews on, not daring to let plans and plots go freely to a captive.
No, she will answer to some modicum. "Those who do not fight for it with tooth and nail,"the wolf answers, and her voice is neither condemning nor arrogant, cruel or kind; it is empty, devoid of emotion, but filled with conviction. "Leaders should not just be able to coerce and diplomat their way into power; they should have split their own blood a thousand times over for their family and friends before they deserve what they want, proven themselves beyond a shred of doubt. Would you not agree with that, lioness and lion?"
Her bird admonishes her, reprimands her formerly undecipherable and coded tongue; outwardly, her demeanor is unchanged but for the slightest shift of an audit, but inside her sin-black skin she is angry. How dare he? The wolf took him in, let him flourish into what he was meant to be, and he repays her by back-talking like the snide little cunt he is. Was it all for nothing? Has he so easily forgotten she saved him for the dying and the undead, for the disease and corruption that ran rampant through the land? Men; young men, with their big mouths, shitting where they can only for others to wipe it up- fucking boys, she abhorred their weakness for tender flesh, for the hips of a woman beneath them, the hardness of their loins when they grew hungry for harlots and whores.
Confutatis' ears slant back, and she lifts her head, challengingly so, shifting her weight back to all fours; for a long moment she lets her yellow eyes cut at his brindled skin while he chatters on amiably. A snort escapes her, a breath of air hardly audible but meant to undermine his courtesy and politeness. What use was a mare if she was convinced that the Regime was a pretty band of wandering jesters? Yet as he waltzes on with his glib tongue, she does not make any other remark. Horses will believe what they want to be believe.
Conversation turns to descriptors and origins.
Nyx does not seem to tolerate Morir's silence.
Would it make any difference if I told you I was nineteen hands tall and bonded to a ten-foot lion? The wolf laughs; it is a rancorous and wild thing, vaguely eerie and vaguely sinister, but there is no doubting the sincerity in it. Perhaps her heart has lightened, being surrounded by beating hearts and blood not running black; or perhaps she is simply learning, and she will be all the more dangerous, all the more deadly for it. "No," she smirks, lips baring into a wild grin. "Men think they are always the biggest, always the strongest."
Ears tilt and listen as Nyx continues on, speaking of Lightning Queens and a land called Isilme. She tenses, ever so slightly; the names sound faintly familiar, but more importantly, surely the virgin mare will recognize her own sire's name. "I too am from Isilme," the wolf growls, her voice rusted and scratched. "Daughter of Oblivion the Demon King and Mortalis, whose father was Morgue the Womanizer."
She lapses into silence, not speaking again until required.
Why me?
"Why not, lioness? Lions are strong, able-bodied warriors- in your case, descended from royal blood- and more than capable at working alongside wolves and coyotes, foxes and bears, fighting for a worthy cause to give the throne and crowns to those who deserve it."
"With us, there will be no lack of wars to fight, rulers to overthrow, and family to find."
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