_{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?

He does not know whom he hates with a greater passion: is it Ka’Ora, that meek, dutiful harpy of his for catching the sound of his name upon the wind, her curiosity bubbling through the barricade of his iron will—or her, that pock-marked, ugly little ember of a mare who dares (dares, DARES) to summon him to  that grove in the first place?

(or himself, for that thrill he feels and cannot help)

Sense says to ignore it; pride screams to scorn it. And yet, that yearning, bubbling thing in his breast brews so much more powerful than the iron mind he was blessed with—he simply cannot fathom her power. She must be a witch; he cannot deduce how such a scrawny creature as her could inspire such a pull against his very being, an aching that is just as repulsed and filled with hate as it is—

He wonders why she is there of all places (a useless wondering; he cannot be deceived, not even by himself—). Why is she not back in the blazing Throat? Is that not her home as well, and does she not have her own set of duties to attend to? He snorts in the wind. Ka’Mate can feel the blood pounding in master’s veins, growing and growing in that steady rhythm of a need the harpy begins to understand and emulate. Ka’Mate is a simple creature. He does not understand the twist in his master’s belly at the thought of a mare; he always assumed master enjoyed the taste of mare. The subtlety escapes him.

Ka’Mate’s urge taints his mind. It makes the whole thing that much more difficult to ignore.

There is no choice in the matter; his bones move and his body thrums without his permission, but she is a herd mate, and he cannot ignore her summons. A powerful thing rushes within him, hissing, a monstrous creature, fanged and regal and displeased with the Grey-Eye’d as he marches (dutifully) for the rotunda.

He sees her standing there, at once. (A feeble spark trapped in the ivory bars of an ornate oil lamp—)

The monster within him roars. It cannot abide by that damned, wretched flutter in his gut.

The defense turns out to be scorn. The eyes that fall upon her ruined hide are smiling an evil thing; the smirk that greets her desperate calls twists in a mocking display of contempt. Something is wilted in her countenance—and so he must smile at it. “And why are you here, Tan-da-vi,” he growls deep in his throat, stones rocking back and forth in hypnotic, handsome accusation, “when our radiant herd land needs our constant vigilance?” A snake’s tongue caresses these words, polishing the knife-points hidden within. He knows how weak the female is; he must now rely upon that weakness to break her, to show her just how much of a wretched creature she truly is.

(and then, somehow, his heart will learn as well, and all things will be right)

"talk talk talk"