Subjugated to prison, to the unseen cage of confinement, stripped of freedom and collared like a bitch -- it was but a sordid tragedy in comparison to her former leadership, the way she led armies and ruled, steadfast, with an iron grip on her people. She should've been a queen, ruling alongside her mighty dragon king, yet here she was, trounced and on display for the sickly amusement of others, to be jailed for her non-existent crimes. Well... she would not presume innocence, but her atrocities, her acts of slaughter and massacre, had not been committed within the realm of Helovia, and therefore her enemies' attempts at justice and apprehension should be null, their consequences unable to affect the haughty daughter of slaughter, the vengeful harlot. Yet here she was: condemned to the cold of this Aurora Basin, forced into captivity, harboured for her heinous mind.

Poison seeps from charcoal pores, glistening decay and ruin seeking out life to rob, to thieve energy from innocuous sources incapable of resistance; starved for death and murder, the sweet and glorious promise of retribution for keeping her subdued, stolen like the common peasant... did they not realize she was a goddess among men, an immortal among mortals? She hungers for revenge, thirsts for blood and the artful blooms of corrosion on pale hides, to see and hear their screams flourish in her divine audits, to observe the peeling of flesh from bone and sinew, to watch them crumple and fall beneath the ashen hooves of the mighty! Laugh she would when they were trapped within the nefarious illusions of her companion, the wicked kitsune who perches { vile } upon her shoulders, jaws gaping and tails crackling, curling, with ceaseless energy { his longing for homicide surges through their bond, feeding her own malicious desires } -- she would hang them, cut their heads from their torsos, teach them a lesson to be remembered.

Those who stood in her way, within the radius of her treacherous sorcery, would fall, as she marches to her penitentiary, dark features imposed with suffocating rancor -- her arcane wants for corpses to litter the ground and her magic to fill the air clear on her reviled face.

Why had she not fought back? She has fallen sickly in the mind, her fractured thoughts unable to comprehend the illogics of following the sleuth without complaint -- desiring only to wreak havoc upon her enemies, upon the civilians of this earth, quivering in her wanton rage and ever-growing frustration, utter madness swelling beneath her svelte curves and hard ribs. And her companion, her mongrel, is unable to contain her furor, the fermented mania that tickles in her head and thuds through her withered heart. The colors of evening paint them red -- turn them dripping in gore -- as they advance to their new encampment, red glistening on shoulders and the deathly white skull { daughter of Oblivion, the Demon King! } Hooves crunch through early snow as the succubus twists up her head, nostrils flaring to cusp the cold scents of encroaching winter, eyes glittering:

"I want to speak to your rulers." And her voice, her voice is a thing of crushed diamonds, all broken edges and razor sharpness, a grating promise of oblivion, balanced precociously on the edge of insanity. "Now."

It festers, an apoplectic fury of which rages through clouded veins, pulsating from her putrid heart and branching out to every capillary, every follicle. Over and over the maleficent turns precociously enraged thoughts, the prominent ideals of queenship, domination, and leadership { all of which revolve around her being the one crowned and enthroned } taken away by coarse serfs, slimy little spies with pink coats and white faces. She is to be the reigning monarch, cardinal sovereignty of Helovia: and here she was, taken down by a coral hornhead. Perhaps I have been too quiet. Perhaps they had forgotten the true authority she wielded, the black magic that dripped and trickled from her wickedly blemished skin: and so, she decided, she would show them once again. Death would find it's hand here today, slaughter and murder of the most villainous sort, and they would weep for their lost, for their audacity in ever daring to take Confutatis, the world eater.

Her captor, eyes veridian seafoam, tries to reprimand her, snapping teeth towards her, pearl white; Confutatis side-steps gracefully, swinging aside her head to avoid the injury -- and then she responds in far greater ilk. Sorcery leaps at Hotaru, savage blades of necromancy, decay and rot, seeking to devour the spy's pale face. Skin quivers over twisted muscle in her merciless efforts; she continues to barrage the other woman { despite never moving, never twitching a muscle } attempting to slough the skin from her skull until there is nothing but bone left.

From her shoulders growls her mongrel, saliva glistening on his lips as he pulls them back, showing off a number of gristly teeth. He had fed recently -- from his beloved, his dearest bondest, who encouraged the sickly manner of which he nibbled at the hard flesh of her taut haunches. There had been no time for him to hunt { or, rather, he was much too lazy to do so } on the trek north, and therefore he had instead sampled the sweet sinew of his beloved -- and in the most perverted of ways, Confutatis had enjoyed it, allowing his pleasure to trickle through the barren crags of her thoughts, delighting in the agony and delighting in the way she t a s t e d. Full of malice and energy, the littlest necromancer crafts illusions of most malevolent intent, delusions of shadow and darkness, all concocted for Hotaru; he holds them back only because of his companion's urgings and commands, instead saving them for whomever might come next.

With any fortune, however, the harlot has been successful in her demonstration of devilry, and she allows the magic to come slithering back to her as she drives home her point. "Do you really think you would've been able to bring me back here unless I wanted to come?" Nostrils flare, and she snorts, utterly contemptuous of Hotaru's words.

Derision glints in her amber eye as she hears the sinister tones of a new fiend, and with an exaggerated sigh Confutatis lets her gaze flit towards the lacy strumpet, her line of sight slowly, maliciously, tracing each and every contour of Illynx's bodice. Briefly, she wonders as to how the slut would look with her skin peeled back, her bones exposed. Quite scandalous, most likely, yet it's never been the sights she's wanted to examine. It's always the screams, the dire songs of the damned bastard being skinned, she loves to hear. It is Illynx's lucky day that Confutatis has tired from the use of her magic. Had she the energy, she would've allowed her insidious sorcery to creep towards the Gilded Blade; but she did not. Instead, she allows her companion to play.

Mongrel lets slink forth the hallucination of the Aurora Basin leader being skinned, stripping back tender muscle and bone, blood dripping from everywhere and anywhere, while Hotaru is similarly struck with the very same illusion, aimed to draw them both in.

It is only when the kitsune allows it to fade that the whore speaks: "you've only caused more trouble for yourself bringing me here. Now, what do you want?"