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The Artisan wasn't quite certain what the fuss was about the little unicorn. He had been careful with her, as careful as an older child with something treasured, for for all his size, he didn't like to fight in the same way he once had. Still, Bazilisk lusted for blood on his teeth, but he had attempted to close off the section of his mind longing for the delicate taste of horseflesh. It was a constant pressure, constantly nagging at him, and yet it could never be sated. At least with Hirran on its way, Birdsong for the horse-folk, the prey would abound again and he could hunt deer as he should.
Glancing towards the black prisoner, he didn't even know why. Horses and pegasi, as a general rule, were harmless to him, unless the unicorns speared him in the mouth, in which case he would die. But Bazilisk was careful, very careful. Years of fighting and crafting had taught him to use his mind, not only his body.
They entered through the beginnings of the wall. Bazilisk was proud of his wall, proud of his crafters' work, and proud of the design. Night-black scales twisted over the sand dunes, enjoying the heat glowing on them. It was a fine day here, with the spring on its way. Golden-red sands drifted lightly, the sun was warm and hot, the clouds were curling above the grounds. Birdsong was his favorite season, with the numbers of prey awakening from a hungry winter, and the warmth constant on him.
The only dilemma was calling for Kri and Leander. Surely they would know what to do with his prisoner. And so he called, in a roar, a quiet one for him, but quite a loud one for any surrounding beings. Content with his call, if only they came for the fear of him eating someone, the snake curled up, head lifted, one violent green eye on Psyche.
"How do you fare, mare?" Bazilisk asks, out of courtesy more than anything.
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