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A sound akin to a feline purr rumbles in Cynder's chest at the mare's touch, leaning into it and causing Tyradon's brow to elevate so far it almost disappears into his forelock. His normally aloof dragon is like a fawning kitten, putty in the hooves of the carrion queen, but at the mental spasm of jealousy from her bonded she decides to put him out of his misery and scrabbles up his leg to sit on his shoulders. She thinks him stupid for offering himself up to the acid woman's magic, and tells him as such, but he shuts off his mind to her and concentrates fully on anticipating the pain of the contact. It will hurt, says his demon queen, and he chortles softly. "I'd be disappointed if it didn't," he remarks.
And it does. His ears slicken to his skull as she sinks her teeth into the taut flesh of his shoulder, the area quickly vacated by Cynder as she scuttles instead to his rump. Agony explodes, and he turns his massive head to watch the chemical reaction - he cannot bend quite enough, so watches through his dragon's eyes, instead. He sees his own flesh bubble and burn, strips peeling free to reveal potent red tissue vibrant beneath the blackened mask; a grunt swells in his throat but he smothers it before it can free itself, determined to show no pain. Even after the initial spasm ebbs, the stink of burning flesh lingers in the air, as do the throbs of hot hell that pour through the tattered remains of his shoulder. It will scar, there's no doubt of that, but he thinks only of how advantageous such magic will be to their cause - what better way to twist the mind of a potential recruit than to show them the consequences of refusal? "That is a fine magic - you are blessed," he rumbles. Or is it cursed? He wonders if her lips are constantly devoured by the stinging acid - he wonders at the pain if he was to taste her, draw her frothing spittle into himself. But their meeting is at an end, and the beast swings his head back around to face Confutatis. She designates a time and place for their next meeting, and he nods. "Until then, demon queen." He dares to extend his muzzle, seeking to nudge against the refined contours of her face, before turning his gargantuan frame away and taking his leave. Cynder chuffs to both mare and mongrel, before boosting from her bonded's rump and diving through the skies above him. |
[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]
