_{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 had been counting the days, feeling the timing between the present and the last, passionate night he had spent north with his full-bodied warrior mate. Ever since the birth of his First Born, the basilisk has become vigilant in the planting of his seed, aware of his conquests instead of thoughtlessly, carelessly sorting through the hordes of sluts that pass his eye, venturing in front of his path. He remembers Shida (oh yes, he does), and the clock chimes deep in his mind, a silent ticking ever present, counting down to the last minute, the last second, where his nerves and his blood both rush in anticipation: it must be time.

He goes to look for his herdmate, noting her absence for all this time—she must be with child, then, for he cannot think of any other reason why the brazen idiot would conceal herself from the rest of the herd in such a way (it had been a good time, yes, and she is known for her begging). Reginald would’ve found himself a willing participant in such encore performances, yet her spirit is a ghost upon the land, a memory, and it’s not until it is tinged with blood and birth that he catches Shida’s scent for the first time in many moons. Birth has a scent, and he knows it well now, burned in his flesh as it is after the near-murder of his first offspring.

Ka’Ora rides with master, perched neatly upon his wither, apprehensive and fidgeting with her beak, her slightly shuffling talons. She is nervous--does she have no right to be so? It had been her very quick thinking, the outcry of her soul, that still his hands from bathing in the blood of his own children. Her heart had pounded, her vision had blurred, and she had cried, yes, she had shed tears for those poor little souls master had sired. She does not know if she can stand to once again bear witness to such a tragedy. She does not know if she can stop him a second time.

She is not so hard to find, not this time. He follows the stinging copper scent and beholds her, sprawled and fat, somehow even more graceless than she had been before. He understands, suddenly, why she would hide herself from the eyes of the public: the unflattering lines, the disappearance of the fine definition of muscle underneath layers. And yet the basilisk does not find himself repulsed by her appearance, for there is a lewd thought in his mind, a pleasure at sight of a woman who is composed of nothing but circles and curves growing even larger and curvier (there is even more to fuck now).

Ka’Ora shifts slightly at the torrid thoughts twisting in her bonded’s mind.
This is not why he is here. He reels himself in, focusing his mind, his eyes and attention, upon the squirming thing at Shida’s side. Hmph. Another daughter; he can smell it on the child’s pelt, plain as day. Ka’Ora feels her worry begin to blossom at her bonded’s contempt, a worry that stalls as she senses his immediate appraisal of the child instead of instant bloodlust. He watches the thing, judging the colors of her hide, mixed as it is between Shida’s liquid gold and his own proud grey. He is not quite sure how he feels about her hues, the grey slashes across her back and knees, the curious dusting of a golden grey upon her legs, her muzzle. She is not as flattering as he had found Oizys, Enyo. A solid color would’ve done better, he decides.

The child has silver eyes—not grey eyes, nothing as bold and proud, cold as that. Her eyes sparkle silver, fine ore smelted and sculpted, locked into the pits of her face. It saves her appearance, for now; he is content.
He observes the child, watching its character. He sees how she rejects the slobbering black hound, how brutal she is in her screaming, her merciless, unapologetic distaste. Reginald lifts a brow at her behavior. Ah, we might have something here. Then the babe disorients herself, her horn bursting with light--and Reginald witnesses that his child is born with magic in its limbs.

Merlin is the child’s name, catching it from Shida’s rough tones. It is not so grand as Oizys or Enyo, the heralds of misery, war (Nyx had done an excellent job). He supposes he’ll have to accept this subpar, ordinary name, for truly, he does not care. The name does not make greatness; one brings greatness to the name.

He is satisfied. He has come to see the babe, and she is…adequate. A rough block of stone of an acceptable quality, that can be shaped and formed into something grand indeed. Were these the wilds he would take his leave, allow the babe to grow some, to learn speech, before he would begin his lessons.

But no, he cannot ignore them here, in the heart of their homeland. He is a father now, a father in the public eye, and for what they know it is his first child born to him, suitably from a mare who is of his homeland as well. It is right, seemly, natural. He must act as a right, seemly, natural father; he must show public pride.

He approaches the babe, and Ka’Ora eyes the demon hound warily as the Grey-Eye’d invades their space. “Merlin,” the basilisk breaths upon the child, lowering his head, inhaling her scent and the air of her life, a new life. His daughter. Merlin, his daughter. “You’re destined for great things, I fear.”

Wild, vicious, explosive, great, glorious things.



[I'm a dingus i'm so sorry D:]
"talk talk talk"