_{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?

Something burns in her air, crackling around her as she descends further, further down into the cavern. Grey eyes flick down to a mutt that rumbles with an idiotic threat—and the mare has sense enough to hush it, to save it from the sharp edge of hoof and pride. A mare indeed (his senses have proven him right), a much larger mare than he anticipated. Perhaps he has been conditioned by the scrawny things he has come to see lately, to expect something small and brittle.

She is none of those things. His glance is a quick one, sweeping over her body in one subtle blink—for he has grown wary of his own habit for scrutinizing the female form, and he is not so quickly tired of this game, as yet. There is…a hearty curve to her features that he has found himself to have a taste for, her bay hide clothing a frame that may not be as large as he may warrant, yet still moves with a power and grace in her ligaments that tempers the annoyance he may have with her sex. It is true that something disgusting mars the ridges of a face that may have been pretty, at some point—though he is not overly offended by the odd splashes of white. Besides, that is not the end of her that he is the most interested in.

With a flash of grey, he peers at her—turning away from the wall of crystal and lava, to gaze at her a little better, to meet her formally. His brows rise slightly, his features cool, impassive…interested. She tells him he seems formidable, and it coaxes an easy smile from him, handsome and dark, teeth set white against a mouth that is black and so often wicked. He knows the female is calmed with a smile—and yet, the grin is more genuine that he would have liked to admit. For inwardly, his ego purrs with her prodding, and agrees with her: he is formidable.

“You look….”Delicious. But he does not finish that thought; instead he seems to peer closer at her, the grin falling, the brow furrowing as he allows himself to drink in her appearance again, concerned and watchful. “…bothered.” It comes out in a tentative, inquiring sigh; he tilts his head, curious. Her scent lingers (delicious and female) and he wonders if she had run here. “What bothers you?”

He notices the green in her scent; hills and meadows, someplace lush and bountiful. “The Falls…” he whispers, as if lost in contemplation, “…do you hail from the Falls?”

Then he laughs, suddenly; gentle and masculine, he takes a casual step to his right, walking along the wall of transparent crystal. “Forgive me,” he says, dashing and light, “I shouldn’t be asking these questions so soon…” He supposes a dare wouldn’t hurt—after all, if he is so successful, it would not matter if she knew is name. “I am Reginald,” he offers, a gentleman’s tone. Now you know what you’ll be screaming later. “You are…?”

"talk talk talk"