A shuffle of coils and knots, tethered and gnarled, led his eyes to narrow, for his mind to wander, room for speculation and defiance, plagued by the unknown (gold, draconic in more ways than one; wanting to question the nature of the lizards and if she shared their blood – and how) and the familiar (flames and fire and smoke, princesses from another world, disappeared then found again) all at once. He didn’t know whether to be on edge or merely take reign in a lazy viciousness, a sort of taut recoil that promised savagery but only prospered valor and honor along his blue exterior; a shifting shadow of barbarity and defiance. So he took an inquiring stance, but didn’t relinquish the undulating of his muscles, the core strength riveted over his hide, a silent gesture that he was the General, a warrior first and foremost, than whatever stately, gallant figure in the next – smile widening, curiosity enhanced amidst his potent eyes. To the dragon mare first, he prospered that vigilant smile, a Cheshire definition outlined across his mouth, settled there since birth, when he’d been more than just vengeance and heartache. “Pleasure, Amaris and Dramyrth.” He meant it – because inquiry had taken hold and shape of him, wondering over their existence, gaze held by the leathery wings and the gilded scales, Orsino’s brow lifting, Enyo’s beak and talons clicking in excitement, if she reigned in potency or just slumbered atop a mass of treasures, meant to guard a host of trinkets and jewels like in all the old stories and fables. “Not at all. My apologies for ruining your nap.” Therein he continued with his honor and valor, pretending to be the peacemaker when disaster and mayhem pooled along his blood, when sometimes only chaos wanted to seethe and simmer behind the ocean current of his stare, nodding politely, vaguely, motioning to his companions in brief introductions. “Erebos, General of the Basin. This is Orsino,” his maw pointed towards the sable kitsune, implored him to do more than just sneer, “and Enyo,” his muzzle drifted along the soft feathers of the griffin, who, delighted, screeched and squawked with utter joy and jubilance. Helovia had yet to inspire her to anything but whimsy.
 
Then, to Kiada, who he could only recall as a child, born from their former Thief and the King of the Edge – silly little royals puttering about as if they owned the world when the world truly owned them – he lied. “Fine,” nodding again, brief and curt, having no intention of describing his father’s death to nearby strangers, digging down into his bones and marrow and cutting himself apart, or falling to pieces in front of anyone. He was a wall, a barrier, a fortification, annihilating and unattainable, controlling his features, his breathing, his remorse and anguish with the slight of his rapier and the sheer resolution of his soul. The warrior turned the subject back to her in an instant, recalling their last meeting about command, about supremacy, about the role others had in their lives. “Did you ever get a chance to meet your father?” He ensured his voice did not break on the final word, but lord how it had wanted to, and how he yearned to tell her to cherish every moment spent with her sire, to know his power, his mind, his wisdom, before it was too late and he was gone, buried in a tomb, lost.