Even enveloped in robes of blood and swallowed thoroughly by her scientific game with the ruined bodies of the slaughtered babes, she is not unwary. Senses remain on high alert, corded and twitching with haunting caution, each strand of thought and instinct wound together -- and thus even in her cavorting among the corpses, she knows. Not that it is him (her beloved?) but that the approach of another is swift; the thunder of hooves makes her shiver, quiver, and she feels it in her bones, the haunting daunting pounding of monstrous hooves. It is not a quaking brought on by fear or more profound feelings of terror, but a negligibly intuitive sensation of familiarity even despite the foreign-ness of the situation at hand.

It is him.
Not her thoughts, for her head drops in casual playacting, as she allows her whiskers to delicately feel over each deliciously snapped bone of the babes. Feigned innocence of the crime -- but in truth, it is woefully clear she cares not for who observes her wicked dance with the dead, for the movement (pretended investigations) is dreadfully late. No, the thought originates from her zealously nightmarish mongrel, a sallow conclusion writhing with his disapproval -- not that she gives it any mind.
It is she who does the controlling in their relationship, whether the kitsune likes it or not.

For a long and idle moment she remains like this, unwilling to turn around even as Cynder comes and alights upon the carcasses (she does remember the dragon remarkably well); and then, salaciously lewd, she lifts her head, dark eyelashes pirouetting together as she turns her skull without moving her body to peer sensually towards her knight.

You would think some feeling of black anger might be sitting within her dessicated chest, grudges and planned revenge against their treacherous abandonments of each other, of the failing of the Regime; and this, this would not be the case. For she is a creature, a feral beast who thrives only on her fickle whims and plans of everlasting punishment. And in turn she gives into raw passion and sheerest instinct, liable to hunch and savvy sentiment, and she does long for him. It festers in her like a crouching beast, a monster whose savagery matches her own; thirst and GREED for a good fucking and a dragon king at her hip once again.

Ambition has been shrouded by sorrow.

"They're only children," she croons, pivoting lazily about her haunches to face him, yellow eye glinting savagely. "They are not as satisfactory as a good fight with a man." Forward she sleuths, barbaric in her sharkish nature, a thin smile playing over her charcoal lips.

"Where have you been, old man?"