There would be no escape.
The wolf was always watching, always waiting, always guarding; she had neglected to speak to the doe-eyed mare, and perhaps this was a mistake, for here the precious little bird came. A song was trilling from that snowy breast, a cry that was certain to be for freedom and liberty- but there would be no chance to flee. As is her duty and choice, the hellion comes to answer, advancing from the shadows, impetuous and imperious, eyes frozen, smile BESTIAL as always; she would love a chance to destroy, to corrupt, to damn this mare into submission, but what use would that be? It was the children the succubus wanted, to purge them of innocence and instill within them ideals of dominance and death, and she would prefer not to risk angering them by harming their mother. And yet, when this child-mother demanded punishment, how could she not give it?

A warning, Confutatis promises herself; a warning, and then I may attack.
"Go back to sleep," the quean rasps, acid dripping from her wide maw. "Go back to sleep, fragile dove, and your pretty face will not be harmed." The threat is not declared boldly and rapturously, but even there then it still looms, an omen of ill health; that Arah will be harmed should she not bend her head, tuck her tail between her legs and go whimpering back to her jail.

Yet the mare demands- I'm challenging for the freedom of myself and my girls.
How very... rude... of her.

"This trial will prove nothing," the Queen of Skulls barks, teeth snapping together to grate and grind, slime and slaver dripping from her lips, yellow of her gaze enfolding the slender bird's fragile bones- oh, she is wicked, even a fool could see it in her the deathly white of her skull marking. "You face off rot and ruin in hopes of defeating it, but all horses must die." Her talking is meant to be a distraction, as she sends forth her companion as she has come to often do; the little beast slinks over snow, ash and shadow, circling slyly towards the unicorn, never tearing his gaze from that precious virgin coat. The yako wonders if they could slay and skin her, entertaining visualizations of the antlered horse's flayed coat draped over his companion's; she would look quite pretty in white, he thinks to himself, it would be a lovely contrast against the dark of her own pelt.

As he had in the battle with Seele, he weaves and constructs macabre imaginations at request of his companion; he does love fear, the taste of it, the smell of it, the way it shows on their faces; and he releases it, ecstatic and excited, dreams knitted from the TORTURE of Asch and Arwen, towards Arah.
Mongrel awaits her doubtless response of terror eagerly, lips peeled back in mocking grin.

Their minds are intertwined and connected in unimaginable ways, the ocean and the mountains, conjoined in peculiar union of death and darkness; the tide of his sea runs red with anticipation as it pounds against the rocky expanses of Confutatis' shores, and she knows that color, she's seen it before when he breathes life into his nightmares, to trap and suffocate little mice in his cruel grip. Without warning, for she has already told the fool to back down, the harlot quickens her stride, preparing to charge; now Arah would need to pay the price of her impunity in the iron of her scarlet blood. There is the crackle and crunch of her hooves breaking through the crust of ice, down into the deeper powder beneath, and it is then she begins her assault of the child-bearer, teeth bared in gruesome smile more akin to the snarl of a wolf.

The demon daughter lets her momentum carry her; it is easy to follow it, once she has built it up to a reasonable pace. As she gallops at Arah, careful with every step lest she slip and fall, she shifts her balance, bracing herself for impact as she hopes to knock into the mare's right shoulder. With the mare's smaller and size and the momentum she carries, she believes that she should be able to knock the mare off-balance at the very least. Her neck arches, and she aims to bite down on the unicorn's back; her own ears pin to neck, and her heart hammers a little faster in her chest.

There is nothing like battle, nothing that can get her heart beating quite the same way. Perhaps she has lost more than she has won since thrice-cursed Helovia, but it is a pain she has gotten used to- one day she will start winning again.
Today could, no, would be that day.