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Every woman has it, a fragile voice at the back of their mind that whispers if something is right or not quite right; and a woman can listen to this warning, the intuition gifted to each and every mare, and hone this skill, or they can ignore it, and so it would fade away, an unwanted blemish on the mind. Confutatis, the black mare of dark heart and hardened soul, was a both primitive and clever thing, a natural oxymoron of persona rather than words; feral she might be, intelligent as well, but she always listened to her feminine instincts.
It was this nagging tone at the back of her skull, niggling like an ugly worm, that alerted her to the presence of someone else- that and the faint scent of dried, salty blood.
Darkness was a powerful driving force. Eternal darkness even more so. Enemies became allies, allies became friends. Families turned, and the gods did not appear. The herds became suspicious, the outcasted left to wander, prey to any that make use of the constant shadow. A herd... she could try her hand at becoming part of a herd. Yet there was none she was desirous of greeting, joining, and being submerged into, forced to assimilate to the different, droll cultures that made up the boring entity that was Helovia. But out here, she was a sitting duck, waiting for the snapping jaws of a monstrous beast.
The water is cold on her tongue, and ice shatters beneath her left hoof as she steps forward.
What is her twisted mind but a series of fractured images, broken glass? She is wild and unpredictable, monstrous and lovely. How could one explore her mind, with its many corridors and trick doors, walls pretending to be windows and hallways acting as stairs? A labyrinth of fearsome memories and terrible sins that is she, and she is nothing but a barbarian, and occasionally a hellion as well. Does the wolf embrace this crude parody of sanity that is her life? Or is she the dog chasing her tail, oblivious to the fact that are other pleasures in life than the ones created in the cause of pain and blood and gore?
The stallion is white as snow and scattered with coal, fashioned to a stolid build, a creamy owl upon his withers.
Gleaming droplets of water fall from her whiskers as she lifts her head, eyes hard, uncaring of his magnificence and handsomeness one might see in him. "Winter is here and the sun is dead, the moon eaten by the night and the stars scrubbed from the sky." What entices her to say this, she does not know. But it is true, is it not? "But you are winter as well, frost and night too; the sky gleams in your horn and your eyes cold." Confutatis tilts her head slightly, studying him in silence, as if weighing how much he appeals to her strange taste. "Call me want you want, for the times are too dark to exchange names with strangers."
CONFUTATIS
and when you meet me, you at long last acquaintance yourself with death in all its magnificent glory.
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