The stallion had not danced in some time, in fact it was coming upon a year since his body had moved in such a remarkable way that was not battle. His normal movements were so captivatingly monstrous, so dangerously seductive with an underlying whisper of destruction and death. In this moment, dancing between stalagmite and stalactite, Abraham was truly a graceful mover. While each pounding step of his hoof made the earth nearly rattle, his mother was apparent on him. She had been the one to first teach him to dance, though it had been intended for battle. The mammoth's neck arched like Circe's, his tail flicking wildly between his strong, solid hocks. Pupils dilated in mismatched eyes, engulfing the green and blue hues. His eyes moved to watch the curve of the dragon-girl's lips before touching gently to her eyes for but a milisecond, before trailing over the enticing curvature of her scaled body.

Twin dragons continued to glide between the dancing hybrids, twisting and turning magnificently between the dragon-girl's phantom reptiles. The white dragon's pupils widened like her master's, and her body shook. Her whole body vibrated, scales and spikes making a low rattling sound. A purr, alluring and musty, from her belly grew and poured from her ajar maw. The golden followed suite, her down feathers spreading to let air flow through them like hollow reeds and create a soft, breezy sound. From her ice-leaking jaws came a song of brilliance, one only a queen could weave and unravel into the world. Abraham let his eyes wander from the hybrid woman to his dragons, watching them as they glided and danced like he was, with this stranger.

The last time Abraham had danced it had a bifold meaning, and it had been encouraged by Gwyneverre. It was when Brienne was but an egg in the frozen north and the leviathan stood, nearly victorious, with one other. Abraham had moved his body much like he was now, with twisting, trotting hooves and a dangerously curved neck. His heart, however, had broken as he danced. His dance was in the wake of his mother's death, her murder. His dance had been in mourning and in triumph--he had lost Circe but he gained Brienne because, in his dance, he was able to open his chest and spill out what little love he had for that glowing, twitching egg. The queen had chosen him over the equine mare that sang to her--because Brienne did not care for words, but for action. She was a queen, and all queens knew that words were deceitful, but the muscles never told an untruth. They were unable. Muscles and bones could only move in certain ways. They were good storytellers.

At the crack of a lightning whip, Abraham bucked his heels up and tossed his magnanimous head, thorny vines breaking through the solid ground of the cave and writhing upwards like dancing cobras.

[SUNKEN FALLS]