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While the wolves continued to howl their melancholy songs outside, Confutatis was not afraid; she feared not the condemned, nor the dead laying rotting, corpses bloated. Did she even have a fear? What terror clutched her shriveled heart when night fell, what nightmares disrupted an easy night's sleep? Certainly it was not him, the stallion spun of blood and snow.
Strange, wasn't it, this lusty desire that warmed her chest? She coveted him, craved the heat of his skin, a gnawing hunger that spread throughout her vicious and half-mad body, drunk on him and his heavy scent, eyes drifting upwards to his indigo ones, and the heat freezes, crumbling, shattering, wreathing her body in invisible frost. Déodat, the loathsome and damned, just like her so despicable and detestable. Once more she marveled at him, the dog finding a new bone to chew, the magpie a shiny new trinket, a fleeting fox making off with a cougar's catch, rejoicing his cold-hearted company. If she were to turn her loins to him, what would he do? How deep did his desire extend? But she cared not for children, the groveling young things of idiocy and blind-sightedness, forced from a mother's womb. Suckling, needy damn beasts. Even this Déodat, forbidden from her seductive hips, could not entice her to bear a mewling child. Not yet, at least, the flawed mare mused.
Confutatis exhaled, a bitter sigh, noting the allure in his voice so rich and deep. Who was it that first began to coax out the hormone-filled tautness between them, as if they were both children first entertaining the idea of curves and voluptuous bodies and manly names? She wasn't experienced in it, persay, but she had successfully carried and birthed slimy son before- so she was not stranger to this heaviness. It was both a chilling and enticing sort of tension, as if the very air might soon split under the pressure, and she basked in it, rejoicing in the delightfully thick air. But something fragile in her fractured upon the shift of his eyes to the scar that ran across her blinded eye, heart hardening. "How did the warrior get her scar, you wonder?" She murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly.
Her single eye notices the tightness of his hindquarters, the flex of his loins. While she is inclined to smirk lazily, she does not. Instead, she sighs and shifts her weight placidly. "And you are simply dashingly rakish." Flattery is pleasant, but she does not flutter her eyelashes in adoration of his compliments.
The black lady did not believe for a moment that he would be so blind-sighted to invite a feral monster back into his palace, but nevertheless she enjoyed entertaining the brief moment of vague hope inside her chest, before she plucks out another meaning from his words. Confutatis laughs darkly, a gruesome sort of laugh that chills the warm blood. "Should I invite you to my quarters?" Oh, certainly he'll understand the hidden meaning. Whether her promises were idle or true, who knows? Only the gods could truly understand the twisted parody her mind was. "I wonder," she murmurs, stepping even closer, until the warmth of his skin is hot on her, and then the fragility of the moment shatters as she touches her muzzle to his ruby neck, ears twitching delicately, charcoal on red silk.
CONFUTATIS
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[O] Magic in death and beauty in blood
