Anger and hurt waged in equal measure as Ophelia's gaze slid off towards Volterra, her heterochromic eyes softening to rest upon her brother's form. She couldn't believe her—to have the audacity to look away, to look at Volterra with such gentleness, such repose; did she think he was better than her? More favourable than her? Why did this always happen? Why did they never see her for what she was, who she was? It's the skull, she thought, her heart hardening and her gut wrenching (she felt as if she might deposit the contents of her stomach on the soil at her hooves); if I had not this fucking skull painted on my head, I would never have these problems. The extent of her mother's influence was incorrigible, indivisible, from herself; it was tattooed in the white emblazoned on her forehead, imprinted on her cheeks, no matter her actions, no matter her choices.

People saw what they wanted to see.
And her aunt was no different.

Nymeria inhaled slowly and exhaled sharply, her red eyes meeting Ophelia's heterochromic ones. They contained nothing of the growing furor within, the chaotic and blooming rage set deep within her heart and spreading like a plague through every cell of her body. If she were to mirror Ophelia's anger, nothing would be made today but her first enemy—and that had never been her intention, although Ophelia had certainly leapt to that conclusion. All she had wanted to do was her prove herself—and what better way than to capture the most renowned spy in all of Helovia?

Still, Ophelia acted like a petulant fucking child, raging, storming, oblivious to anything but her own actions. Blood continued to drip from what seemed to be every orifice; Nymeria wondered how she had been gifted with that magic. It was a strange one, and had she been someone different perhaps more intimidating—but she had long been acquainted with blood.

She demanded truth, threatened assault; did she act this way with everyone? If Nymeria had been someone different, someone Ophelia didn't know, would she have responded with such raw anger? The skull-faced daughter said nothing in response (not yet), even while she ached to bite back, to defend herself, to correct the unicorn's interpretations of her "misdemeanours". Instead, she drew up and proofread answers—although whether or not the Amaranthine would choose to accept them...

Not likely, considering the way things were moving.

Nymeria's teeth flashed in a wolfish smile, the only expression of her scorn, her complete disdain for her aunt's actions; she stepped forward, not once but twice, seeking to play Ophelia's own words against her. When she speaks, it is quietly and sharply, cold and accusatory. "If you want the truth, read my thoughts. Realize that when I was at the Edge that day, I needed help—your help, your guidance, and you didn't see it. Recognize that I was planning on stealing nothing from you; that I wanted to capture you to show I had potential, that I could be something more, that I might be worthy of your mentorship." The grullo glanced towards her brother, hesitated, and then sighed.

"I'm not my fucking mother. If you need to read my mind to figure that out, then you're welcome to."