She didn't care about ruling the world; she was ripe to burn it down.

Gods, eternal life, beautiful death-- such things were furthest from the empty plains of her mind. The she-cat roved through pretty forests and valleys torn through the crust of the earth, olive eyes always frantic and searching, and she never stopped to ponder the unfathomable. One look at her- at her nimble limbs and dogged trot- and one would know: whoever she was, wherever she came from, she was all business.

So she didn't hesitate when she and Rhiannon crossed paths. The other would have a split second to register before the blur was upon her, a snarl twisting her bruised muzzle. "What'd you do with my brother?" Her paws dug further into Rhiannon's chest. "Well, stupid girl?"

The wind burst from her lungs, the she-cat skidding across the ground. She didn't have time to lay around dazed, however, and was swiftly back to her paws, braced to lunge again. She didn't... yet.

Something was clearly off about this cat. Though she was stoic, there was a twitch in her paws that lent her a buzzing energy, a shift in the fur between her shoulders and along her haunches, giving her a disheveled, nervous appearance. The silver wounds riddled beneath her pale gray fur made it clear though that she wasn't afraid of the trouble she was creating.

She gauged the sincerity in Rhiannon's tone. Was she telling the truth? Or was this all a doctored retelling, an act put on to dissuade her? She seemed to oscillate between two very distinct emotions, one moment relaxing her aggression and another tensing up all over again. "You know," she eventually ground out, low and growling, "You know! Where is he?!" She threw herself forward once more, kicking up small pebbles as she barreled toward Rhiannon.

As the huntress held her down, she razed the claws of her right paws against the ground. It was a fruitless, tiring endeavor, one that earned her no quick success.

The eve wore on, and no matter how scrupulous, how unrelenting, her attacks were, the simple fact that dirt did not bleed superceded her own tenacity. By the time she finally began to settle down, exhausted, the few claws she did have were blunt and cracked; her paw pads were raw, brittle, and starting to bleed. Still, though she was clearly out of breath, she was unrelenting, still accusatory and hostile. "I know you have him, you infernal heretic. I know you have Cezra. Where is my brother?"

I'm afraid he met the end of his rope under the assassin's claws. "You're lying, wench," she hissed, unbelieving of the claim despite the fact Rhiannon had no real reason to deceive her. Reinvigorated by the perceived lie, she started up her attack again, this time just as futile as before, and writhed around beneath Rhiannon's paws like a shark on land, snapping her jaws in the same manner the sea-beast would.

As the rage once again drained from her, melting into a dull agitation, clarity started to seep back in and she saw some bit of reason. Yes, it was true this cat had no reason to lie to her... but she remembered her brother faintly, merely the silhouette of him shrouded in fog and piercing golden eyes, and recalled the ease of which he'd held her down with, recalled the sharpness of his teeth when they latched onto her leg. Surely he couldn't have been felled so easily? Then again... Rhiannon didn't appear to be breaking a sweat either and she had none of Cezra's solid muscle.

Suddenly, she started to laugh. "F-fool, that damned fool! He knew we would come- yes! He let himself perish. He knew it was his only chance to escape the endless fire, so he let himself be killed by a mundane. Fool," she chuckled.