Click, click, click. A walk beyond the river had turned into a hike to Draco. Obieth and Pollen would have killed her for going so far without a guard, but today, Aethril had no real intentions of sneaking off. Nor did she know, exactly, why her feet led her here today.

It's not like the company was the best.

Heels moved in tandem with the thrum of Draco's spire, two hearts beating as one. She only slowed when the Voidlight of the black spire hit her cheeks and dappled through her hair, coming to a gentle halt with a long sigh. The last month had been a little more than intense-- but it was so... quiet.

The Womb was almost empty. It looked too big without any chrysalises in it-- or at least, chrysalises that were the size of, say, something like Draconua. The bass of Draco was almost deafening in her ears, too, but it was suddenly disrupted by a crack of gemstone.

Violet, gold and black. Oil-slick. "Well, well," purred the Valkhand. "Look at you." The precise tap of a heel against the cave floor and Aethril took a single step forward before crouching very slowly before Ultraviolet, elbows perching on her thighs.

Her smile was sickly-sweet, eyes narrow and sharp, lashes edged like blades. Was this one of Vargas's, or even Cain's, or was it like Obieth-- a gift, new to the world? ... Why did cats always hatch when she walked in here? "Who are you?"

"Why do you speak?" Aethril asked, the heel of her palm tucking underneath her chin. "Why do any of us?" She knew why, of course-- but this little one could likely piece that much together itself. "Do you not have a name?"

Her spare hand extended out, fingers gently clicking. While she had patience, particularly for catlike creatures, she didn't have that much to deal with a creature hissing and spitting at her while she was trying to be (for now) nice. "Come here." Not a question. An order. "Let me see you."

The flash of a golden skull shape caught her eye, and one corner of her lip quirked upwards. What creature had Cain found to have a child with, if it had created this one? Her fingers were beckoning, now-- a flash of oilstone-coloured nails twinkling in Voidlight as they curled inwards to her palm.

What a fascinating little creation. "I know what you need," she offered, voice slick with sweet venom. "If you're so interested."

Defiance. The tip of the Hand's tongue drew along her top lip. She could almost taste blood in her mouth long before she had even acted in response to the creature's words, its snarls, its arrogance. There was no one else here to prove this little point to; no one to cower at the very sight of her, no one to warn, no example to be made. It took the pressure of performance away. There was nothing left but delight.

A scrape of a heel and Aethril was lifting back to her own height. One glance over the Valkhound told her that she didn't quite feel like getting her hands dirty, oil-slick, and as she rose a sleek, eel-like tendril yawned into existence next to her. Like a whip it cracked into the air, lashing against the alien and snagging his neck. A rabbit caught in a snare, the rope growing tighter the more the creature thrashed.

"You do not know who I am," she said, hands clasping neatly in front of her. "I am the one who decides if you live or die. I am your salvation and your end. You stand, you breathe, you speak, because I allow you to. Will you so easily squander that opportunity I have given to you?"

Click, click, click. She walked around to the Valkhound's side-- not quite in range of his claws, or that tail --but certainly in range to eye it up and down as though she were trying to decide which cut of meat she'd like served to her.

"Let's try again," she purred. "What is your name?"

She watched with a slight smile. A light show, of sorts-- her eyes were narrow and she watched the hues-- violet, yellow, violet, yellow --flash right before her, staining her dress a new colour with every change. She revelled in it. She could almost hear Him watching with her, marvelling in this little fragment of Chaos. That voice that pried at the back of her skull wasn't satisfied yet, however-- not until the blood was dripping from her fingers and pooling like rainwater. Not until it was all she could smell, all she could taste.

The light flickered out and there was something poetic about this. Plush pelt flattened with oil and blood, the light that danced between black fur gone with no sign of returning. Aethril licked her lips, pacing back to in front of Uvio, but not lowering herself again. Not to his level.

"And who do you think you were created for?" She asked, a whetstone gliding against a sharp, silver blade. "Those who create rarely have the eyes to assess what they have brought into this Nest. Do you think, because you were created by Him, that this makes you special?"

Click, click, but she was going nowhere in particular. She was flaunting, look at the freedom that I have in the face of the Valkhound, trapped underneath the pulsating, black tendril. "Do you want to know how I know what you need, Uvio?" --a rhetorical question she answered anyway-- "We were both created by Him. We are made in His design. We crave chaos, we crave to sow it, to rip flesh from bone and to bask in it. The difference between you and I, is that you,"

The tendril gripped tighter. A sharp, needle-point heel was upon Uvio's side at once, digging into the soft flesh between his ribs as the Hand stomped the pretty shoe against him with her foot. "You," her teeth bared, lip peeling back as venom ejected from her throat. "are nothing. You are little more than a failure. You are less than the maggots in the ground scavaging for waste."

Her weight pushed onto the heel as she leaned in closer, her voice a noxious whisper. "You do not make the requests around here. You beg. You plead. You prove yourself more than dirt on my cloak by my order. Do you understand?"

The hound said nothing.

Aethril waited.

Her patience had waned, however; a thread loosening, unwinding, fraying away. Her weight pushed down on her knee, against the heel, until she heard the slight popping of air between bone-- a melodic, soft crackle to her ears. His magic roared through every sense. She wanted to bask in screams, in the scent of blood. She wanted to scream and throw fire until she was satisfied.

She craved it. Her throat raw, her hands aching. The sweat dousing her, the exhaustion of a migraine-- and yet, she was waiting. No screaming, no fire, no thunder. Instead there was a quiet thought process; a calculation she ran over in her mind again and again. The silence sent her ears ringing.

And then, she decided.

If he doesn't want to speak, then Aethril would make sure he didn't have the chance.

The pressure in front of Uvio's face dropped. There was no more air for him to gulp down as greedily as he had wanted to; nothing to soothe the pain, nothing to roll through his aching lungs. The Valkhand was silent above him, watching with heavy eyes.

Perhaps, she thought, some time in hibernation will do him good.