To be sure, there is something of wrath in the boy's steely eyes- but it is drowning beneath something vile, she thinks, a sinister blackness, a decaying psychosis. He reeks of his power, of sweat and of blood; he reeks like a male, despite his jejunity, and she snarls at the scent, blood rising and heart racing. She loathes the way those sliver eyes linger upon Natraj, rebels at the idea of the brute touching her brother; she would rather have his touch on her, so she could burn his foul flesh off. The kitsune glares back, a low growl growing at the back of his chest. His eyes warn, Come no closer! and his pale teeth gleam in the shuddering lightning which enlightens the scene.

The beast spews more nonsense, and the girl's eyes gleam. The gravel of his voice and the bite of his bile calms raging nerves, settling the fire and laying it dormant, impatient, a volcano waiting on the brink to explode. Pressure is building beneath her dark skin; she can feel it crawl up into her nerves, the blooming and beautiful desire to burst. The sound of him is knives, sharp and repugnant, his mockery hollow and childish and dull. He brings up a heat from the pit of her stomach, inspires a warmth to burn under her tail, strange and inspiring, what must surely be hate. She frowns at his words, at the trite insult of bitch- she glowers, not for him, but because she lets it sting her, burn her fervid mind.

"If I am a bitch, I am not yours."

And then he moves - he leaps - not at her, but at Natraj, tearing toward the boy who rests before her hooves. She can see the desire painting his rabid face, the hunger for her brother, her kin, the only thing she has left- she knows that he wishes to snuff their bond out, just as Ampere did, and somewhere, she snaps. Fire erupts and the pressure explodes; the girl lunges forward, into his attack, just as the gods strike the skies in two. In the instant of light, she is fire unleashed.

In the instant of light, she is anger incarnate.

In the instant of light, she is a goddess, a hero, a paladin, a knight.

And in the instant after light, she is stone.

She snatches his magic and makes it her own, throwing herself before the beast even as the copper of her figure turns to stone. The cold of it is relief to her, a quelling of the rampant emotions, the unknown fire which fuels her flesh and settles and sizzles between her legs. Gold-slashed face and the three stained limbs, as well as flecks on the small of her back; this is all that remains of her flesh, and she hopes he will crash and shatter on her figure, that the lines of her waif-like form will slice through him and leave him bleeding, raw and broken and devoid of life.

The fox darts beneath flailing gray hooves, spritely and nimble, too small for such force. Reginald is an easy target for the boy to avoid, and he makes use of the equine's rage to sprint beneath the pounding hearts, flames licking up at the soft steel stomach. Aware thick limbs he weaves with cold care, tails leaving trails of smoke in his wake; and fast as he entered, he leaves the monster's shadow, darting to safety behind tall marble spires.

@[Reginald]