There is a wolf—no, not a wolf, but something other, black fur scarred with amber and devilish eyes gleaming like a nightmare. She has never seen anything quite like it before; not even in the wilds, not even under the light of a shrinking moon. And she, in result, is unnerved, unhinged by the presence of the undefinable and unknowable, the very worst kind of danger there is. How do you fight a monster you've never heard of? Her red eyes flash upwards, whites gleaming, skipping to Crowley and then returning to the imminent threat posed between them with bristling hackles and thorny horns.

Promptly, Nymeria recoils, muscles surging and flexing and re-arranging beneath her iron coat, and Lilómiel rustles his wings, feather crest flaring upwards in his outrage. His claws rattle against the frost-kissed bark, the racket meant to ricochet and distract the predator from his bonded but instead being swallowed by the depths of the forest around them.

What hopeless folly, and her thoughts pulsate with a barbaric anger, grating against the edge of Lilómiel's mind. The dragon snarls, tail whipping and haunches lowering as he edges out and forwards, nearer to the end of the branch. Beneath him it bends and sways, dancing to get away from the incessant hook of his talons; he rides it like a boy born in a saddle, balance hitched and careful even when his lips peel back ever farther and his fury is a storm unhindered, awakened by the thunder of his goddess's fear. Smoke trickles from his nares, gossamer gray twirling upwards in omen of a burning.

The filly's thoughts grip tenuously tighter on Lil's growing insolence, sweaty fingers sliding on his dominating temper's reins. She knows she cannot do this forever—the backlash of their forced bond and her exerted control will snap eventually, pulled too tight by a stretch of wills yearning for freedom, but it is necessary. Her coat dampens, darkens.

... You.
Those were cold eyes, empty gold and fragmented calculation; she sucks in a breath, sharply, and fought the urge to run. Lilómiel hisses, the knife-edge thin sound cutting through the velvet night to expose Nymeria's fear hidden beneath her supposed "confidence"—she jerks, head snapping upwards and neck scrunching, arching, to protect her throatlatch's vulnerable curve. Their eyes were the same. Yellow and yellow, quadruple suns suspended in backdrops of soot streaked with ash. Swiftly, almost frantically, her gaze jumps from beast to stranger, stranger to beast; companions, yes, it all falls into place now!

If the horse was rabid, was his dog?
No—no, the wolf, the helldog, whatever the fuck it was, seemed queerly at ease where the unicorn's words (while posed on a platter of ratinonality) were distorted and illogical.

Except his possible paranoia would justify his illogical nature.
Wouldn't it?

Uneasy, she is; struck and rubbed the wrong way by the shininess in his calm voice, his lips' abhorrent twist and his ears' sibilant twist. It is only with great force of effort that she calms the quiver in her limbs (while feeding her insecurity and gaping lack of confidence with a trickle of Lilómiel's offered vanity) lowering her head and arcing her neck to meet Crowley's eyes without terror.

"I'm not a child," she says to him instead of giving answer to his madness. Something burns in her breast.

Why do they always say I'm a child?

"The only one who sent me was myself."