She does not dignify his earlier words with a response - you're a baby, no you're a baby isn't going to get them very far, and Oizys isn't quite puerile enough to demand the last word. Not that it bothers her, but she is genuinely baffled why he seems to loathe her so much. Is it because she is a girl, and he is male like Father? No, not like Father; he is a quivering, snivelling brat before her sire's savage beauty, his palpable, stone-hard rage, his harpies...
Her fantasy elaborates further, now. Instead of her father and her eagle killing the boy, she imagines him surviving their brutal ministrations. She imagines him with scars like her - she imagines the world mocking him for them. Bleed, pretty boy, bleed.
Ah, she has grown rather fond of this little daydream of hers. It is a dreadful shame when she has to tear herself back to reality.
She tilts her head, focusing hard on her image, struggling to smother the anger that still bubbles within. She is unused to this; to being treated like shit, instead of a goddess. "Why do you hate me?" she questions, her voice as neutral as she can make it, trying to sound mildly interested rather than confounded. She treats him like she treated the dead fawn; something to be poked, prodded, examined. "Just 'cos of my horns?" Her cold eyes scrutinise him, her temper quelled beneath the fantasy she keeps replaying in her mind.
Ker, with a final withering glare at the colt, hops back down to the carcass, her hunger reignited by Oizys thinking about it. She heads for the eyes, pecking them from their sockets, pretending they belong to the boy.
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