_{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?

An order. It is an order he is given.

He swallows it, bites it, chews it to dust; he pummels it, fights with it, wrestles it back; he swallows the venom pooling on his tongue, keeps the fires licking the back of his throat at bay. He blinks back the bite in his eyes; they remain cool, docile, receptive. He masters the impulse of his body, honed from so many years as a wild, roguish thing with its own destiny.

He is given an order—and he obeys.

He wonders briefly, with a smile so tastefully absent of the bitterness that churns inside—he wonders if his winglessness means anything to his superiors, his countrymen. He wonders if it marks him, someone or something different from the status quo. He has pledged himself as a member of a herd of pegasi; he ponders the musings of a “racist”, and how ugly his spider whore had thought of a hornless little girl. He wonders if the same principle holds true with those who sport heavy, useful, ridiculous appendages from their shoulders. He does not mind them, of course—they only serve as another thing to dodge, another thing to pierce.

He comes upon a delicate clearing—one he is most familiar with. The setting of his first fucking, where he finally discarded that irksome little insect that called herself a spider. He gazes about the tranquil setting, bored and ever so slightly restless; his mind circles back to other thoughts he often has, thoughts of mares and this herd’s audacious nature.

He laughs in order to calm the rage in his breast—all these women he actually soldiers alongside. They make women soldiers in this place! Instead of bearing children, they bear arms—in some cases they bear both, foolish in their thinking that such fragile creatures are capable of so much. He snorts, alone (for his vassals soar high above, eyes for their wingless master), his eyes lidded against the ludicrous thoughts.

There was one such woman he was supposed to come here with—some wingless scrawny creature who (thankfully) had the sense to don a healer’s garb instead of a warrior’s belt. He does not know where she is now; he did not linger to wait. She did not appear to be a child, regardless of her smallness. She can find her own way.

The Basilisk sighs, pacing through the peace of this quiet grove. He wonders if his idle snooping is valuable; he wonders if he's being a good boy.

"talk talk talk"