_{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?

“Not bothered per say, just…out of breath”

“Hmph,” he snorts lightly, shifting his shoulders; his locks tumble against the thickness of a corded neck, his forelock shifted against the bridge of his nose, casting something dark to frame his eyes. His grin falters from something cordial into something easy, an amused half-smirk that dances across the hard lines of a granite visage. He continues to stalk along the edge of the cove, his right shoulder aligned with smooth, cut rock; his steps easy, almost careless, a wide, tasteful circle around a tasty specimen of a woman that gives her space—and keeps the particulars of her frame in view.

The game becomes subtle, and he finds that he enjoys it even more.

Especially as her own lips pull into something uneasy—yet charmed.

Black-tipped ears cock to the side, and a grey gaze falls upon the wolf that hugs its master’s legs. He wonders at it, for a time. Something in the back of his mind keeps trained on this mutt, keeping note of its position, of the hairs along its angular spine. He knows it will be unsavory indeed to have to skin the bitch’s dog in front of her eyes, if he so needed. He supposes his steps will have to be even more careful, artful.

*“It’s strange… you seem to ask questions you already know the answer to…”*

Grey eyes snap back to her, dancing with a glee that could be attributed to her pleasant company, her conversation. “You smell of hills and green things,” he explains, pointing out the vibrancy in her scent that drew his attention, “scents that are somewhat out of place here, in the heat, amongst rocks. It is the only herd I know of that resides in such a place…I only guessed, is all.” He shrugs his massive shoulders; his movements remain easy and controlled. He wonders how far he would be able to push this game. “My mother….she took me there, once, when I was a boy…” he throws it from his mouth carelessly, the words unassuming, an insight to his mind that casts from his lips like bait.

Essetia, she says she is called. Hmmm, a name more gorgeous than she. Perhaps her mother had held grand expectations for the daughter she cradled in her stomach? And he also finally learns the name of the wolf as well:Romul it is called, the mutt’s name almost as ugly as its long, colorless face.

“Essetia…” he breathes, smoke and snake-breath; the fang trails his lip on purpose, the voice wrapping her name in a caress that is quite deliberate. “Tell me, Essetia--but why were you running so hard from the hills and the grasslands to make yourself out of breath? You’re not in…danger, are you?” His eyes flash, and he almost loses the composer he has carefully crafted—he cannot help it, for he finds his own words delicious and clever, and her heated flesh lingers in the corners of his mind.


@[Essetia]--tagging because it's been so long! Sorry for the wait!
"talk talk talk"