Grimoire’s ears twitched at the death carrier’s monotonous question in reaction to being yelled at. Social normality seemed above his head. Grimoire would have it no other way; he was young fellow with quite the arsenal of charm. Her pink eyes gleamed while her lip upturned slightly. Her gaze returned then to the smaller, young hotshot. The little sweetie’s righteous nature caused her treacherous heart to seethe with hatred - it warmed her soul like a surprise gift. Her nose twitched, memorizing the scent of her. Oh indeed - she had found one. With conviction, with anger, and with a will to act. Now the question was… How did one make fire dance? It was with a gust of a fan.

Grimoire placed a paw on top of her kill. With a defensive wail, she whined,

”Why ask questions you don't give a rat's ass about?”

Her paw slipped and slid skin off her meal with it, exposing the bloody muscle beneath. Grimoire stepped over the body. In shrill tones, Grimoire impersonated,

”Look! I’m a perfect princess who knows all the morals.”

She tiptoed forward two paces, her nose tilted to the sky. Then the little female went and taunted Death again. Grimoire didn’t like that. Her head lowered as her body took on the likeness of a sword, tip lowered to it’s opponent. Her voice became sharp as a blade’s edge,

”So, you've nothing to learn from me... except that my friend's fashion statement is falling apart. And that I think he’d look smashing draped in sienna and blonde.”

Mirth glossed her gaze when she glanced at her socially awkward companion in the trees before they returned to the small female. Teeth slid out in a venomous smile, stained red with strings of fat caught between them. Another step closer, she placed her paw.