_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

Females have captured his interest and attentions, lately. He detests this new obsession of his, this insistence of his body he cannot control. The day is lovely, his spirit enraged and harried surely by something intangible—for birds tweet and the wind blows, stupid and docile, wafting amongst trees he does not remember. Has he ever traveled so far east? They tower above him, looming giants, old as time itself; heralds of traditions immemorial. He does not know his mother trekked here once before; he does not detect he echo of his father’s footsteps ringing throughout. He is angry with the women in his mind, the blood that boils strangely, familiarly.

He sees her, sitting dumb and striking in a bed of clover. Grey eyes scan and pick the body apart, an expert stare by this time—prone to dissection. He wonders what’s wrong with her legs and why she chooses not to use them; he ponders the curious infection that splays across her skin, marring it with its brilliant sapphire hue, mismatched and ugly against the sable hide. It is some moments before he realizes they are scales, and those of a dragon, at that. Who would lay with a dragon? he asks himself, his mind flown into some jauntish fancy, no doubt due to the queer passions of his gut, the lovely day around him, what dragon would deign to lie with a mare, instead of eating her? He approaches; his gait is smooth, his eyes are even, his thoughts are his own. Perhaps he came back later, searching for sweeter meat.

It pulls a smirk from his lips, these grotesque things he imagines; when he faces her, finally, he fails to stifle the grin. “Lady,” he greets, a boyish charm finding its way to his throat; he was undecided what to make of this thing before, this creature sitting in the clover. He decides now to play with it, and taste. “You’ve come to an...interesting place.” He smells her, that queer scent mixed with reptilian sweat and the spoor of a mare--a mare, he finds, and not the filly he believed her to be. She’s larger than he first realized, sitting in the clover—and so very different from the land he knows, her scent, the eeriness of those dully glittering scales. "Who are you?" he very nearly whispers, young and rakish all at once. He wonders where she is from—for her scent does not place her north, south, east, or west. She does not smell of sand or winter cold; of salt or the powerful odor of solid rock.

He wonders where else there is, on this world. Yes, he will play for now, and taste instead of bite. She presents a riddle to him; the riddle of an unknown world outside his own; the riddle of a mare that he has found himself interested in. Somehow, she seems so much less useless than before—but he does not know why.

[CRASHED FOREVER]
"talk talk talk"