_{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?

Ah, there it is. A bugle, a beacon of light. Different ways of bringing heel to his fellow bitches. Come now, you dogs. Heed my call.

The Basilisk heeds. He has been waiting for such an occasion. It amazes him, how little this herd seems to see each other, how easily it is spread, how simple his excursions had been to take away from his duties. There was something missing, a backbone surgically removed, a vital piece of the culture that permeated the blistering sands. He has not seen Gaucho. He has not scented the small, black whore with the odd, ridiculous blue markings—she who is his superior (such a thought leaves a sour, electric taste in his mouth). He wonders what their absence means.

And still they are absent as he arrives to the call, punctual and smart, clean and presentable. His mane has been trimmed and cut, and he does look the part of a polished brute--it is all because of his plan. A good impression is a must at this junction.

He is not so foolish to assume his children alone will be able to bring about a glorious future. They are a key, yes, a beautiful, wondrous, dazzling golden key—but they will mean nothing if he does not also prepare the pedestal. His pride will not allow them the full glory of these machinations.

It pleases him that neither the Sultan or the Gladiator have shown themselves. No, it is only Megaera, she of plain brown and small bones, she of a rounded stomach (oh?) and the stern, if preoccupied, gaze of a leader. His eyes are welcoming as her gaze scans over him. They hide the laughter in his breast, at the ludicrous nature of her appointment as Sultana. He does not understand it. And yet he must humor it.

“Pay attention,” he says, and he knows that Merlin will listen to his words, clinging as she is to his shadow, “She is Megaera, the Sultana of these lands, one of our rulers.” These are basic things he teaches her, giving her a map of the playing field, filled with symbols and arrows and diagrams that she could not possibly understand, not so young. He shows her these things regardless. She will learn.

The meeting is brief—rushed, in fact. He assumes he is correct in guessing there is something else clouding those eyes, the Sultana’s head buzzing with other things, perhaps. He does not care; his hoof cocks as he hears of a routine laundry-list of things he already knows; the world is at peace (as of now), and he must fulfill his duty (like always). The only change of pace is the election of a bizarrely colored creature as Sleuth, a woman’s profession (or a coward’s). Reginald flashes a look of approval at the grotesque stude; he cares very, very little for his triumph.

Ah, but it is his turn now, for he indeed has business for the herd. He steps forward, bold and unafraid, grey gaze meeting the little Sunspear. “My Sultana,” he says, and it is an offering that is necessary, even as he dips his head in a respect he loathes to give, “It’s been over a year since I’ve been granted sanctuary here, and now, as a Father—“ his eyes flash to little Merlin behind him, “—I must commit myself even more towards the welfare of my home. I wish to become a Guardian of these sands, if you find me fitting.”


"talk talk talk"