Nudging at the creature with her nose, it capsizes; tail tumbles over face, with a small mewl of displeasure, before it is back at its wild batting at her foreleg. With amusement, Beloved watches, focused upon the tiny cat and its ever moving mittens, ears lifted, eyes glimmering…
“Since when do you like baby animals?” asks a voice, familiar. It does not immediately register as so, though, and the demoness steps away, her crown lifting, ears flipping back, gaze narrowing into slits which hover hauntingly over the warding, angry hiss which suddenly erupts from her giggles. The kitten, frightened as well, remains where it is, merely pivots, its small back arching and its body dancing about on tiptoe as she, too, unleashes a hiss of malevolence. With a bark of delighted laughter, the White Witch discards her mantel of aggression, while the feline retains hers, her tail slowly lowering, and reducing its defensively fluffed diameter.
The next question stills that favoritism for a herd mate behind yet another hiss and scowl, a deep frown digging into the lines of her face as she glances at the small white fiend, marked by black.
“No,” she answers as if cursing, yet still giggling, her eyes suddenly back upon the many-staved mare, “it is only an Orphan. Though…”
The cacophony of her voices lures her eyes down, back to the creature, which slowly ambles towards her now, again. Beloved’s ears stay fallen, her nostrils curl with the deep, shaky breath she draws. It is very calling to her, that small face. It almost feels as if it, too, was drawn to her, their eyes meeting as their heads moved in unison.
The sudden realization that perhaps Wessex is right makes a sudden anger rise in her, and like a cobra, its head jets upwards, and its fans splay; a wild sound of disgust rises from her being, and it is hiss like, her head suddenly jettisoning up from where she’d been simply inspecting. Eyes widened by absolute displeasure and panic, her nose begins to swish one side to the other, faster and faster, until Beloved’s face is all but blurs, and her head begins to knock whoosh knock with the raving motions she subjects her brain to.
“No, no, nonono, no, no…” she wails, and plots, her erratic shaking fading into dismayed panting as she stares upon the kitten, sitting and staring at her, smirking, if it were possible. In her mind, she inquires, and her mind, as always, answers.
Could she kill it?
We would die.
Could she flee now?
It will find you.
Curse this heathen’s realm!
Perhaps we are the one cursed.
“Who did this?” vehemently questions the woman of Wessex, her tone accusatory, her gaze equally so; with a forward pace she presses her stare upon the gun-metal mare, small muscles in her face twitching, her laughter like sharp gurgles amidst her panic, now, “who? Was it you?”
go on, believe
that life's some kind of masterwork
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