_{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?

There is a bond between these two, a thick one, sugary and sweet, sticky, the sparkling icing atop a quaint chocolate cupcake; the sprinkles are shaped like stars. The basilisk leans on one haunch—wondering if it would be worth it to sink his fangs into such a thick layer of frosting. His teeth will surely ache.

Is he bothered? Yes, in all his blunt honesty. Slowly, surely, he is becoming bored of these sweet things, this sugary ritual between two clearly silly women. The grey one (Brisa) is loud, a shrill harpy screaming her pleasure; Kahlua the blue-eyed, the fairy queen of the Edge (he can barely keep himself from snickering) certainly dazzling in the tempo of her mood. The ghost of the laughter lays upon his lips, keeping his smile taut and true—genuine, easy. The game becomes easier with practice.

Sorry, I didn't catch your name..

His brows rise mildly. “I am Reginald,” he says with a smooth tongue, molding his name with utmost care, “of the Dragon’s Throat.” He makes a quick note in his head—that these ladies know of his identity, and that he should keep this in mind, for the future. It is not a light thing to be given, to be thrown about, just in case. Most times he prefers the shadows of obscurity—but sometimes, sometimes, the call of social niceties demand such gestures. There is a piece of him—small, yet acknowledged—that bemoans his earlier decision, and wonders if it’s too late to eat them, now. But, agh, they know his name.

I hope you have someone as important in your life.

He is thankful, with every fiber of his being, that he does not.

Abraham, Macaria, Father. His daughters, Oizys, Enyo, Merlin—the fine slope of Shida’s ass. He knows, deep within, these things could be discarded easier than one would expect, and his heart would beat, his breathing would stay even, and he would trudge on, forever attempting and failing to satiate an insatiable appetite.

Harpy-song cuts through the air; these thoughts bring Ka’Ora great pain. Reginald’s ear cocks against his bonded’s keening, and that is all the attention he gives her.

His smile is warm honey in Kahlua’s eyes, his silent response to her dearest wish. He cocks his head, peering at the ladies from behind a dark, straggly curtain of mane. He is rakish. “I don’t suppose you fine women would need an escort now, between the two of you,” his phrases are polished, his voice warm, warm, dripping with something (they call it friendship), “although I would be honored to walk with the two of you home, if you would care to suffer my presence for a bit longer?”

He drops the word—home--to see what it does to the queen.


"talk talk talk"