The snowflake of a dragon scowls at my arrival, the boy making such a similar expression to the beast or the beast to he that I still find myself in good humor towards him despite his obvious dislike of all the strange company (which is, of course, what I assume to be the cause of his disgruntled stare).

He is called Abraham, and I mull it over several times in my head in an attempt to remember his calling, sure that I will at least remember him; its not every day a boy meets someone with two flying lizards and a horn, and it draws so many questions to my mind that I find I am perhaps overly eager to speak with him about it.

Any offense or delight I’d have found in asking such questions is lost as the damsel steps from the shadows, her butter cream and ebonite figure taking on the ruddy glow of the leaves above rather than the shadowy depths of their lower boughs. She smells like flowers, I note, but her face is anything but delicate as she turns her gaze towards the dragon keeper, glowing in places she hadn’t been before.

I watch it all with a widening of my eyes, my mouth slowly slipping open at the bold audacity of the woman, a wonder as to what the dragons (two of them, mind you, known for tempers hot as the infernos in their bellies) might do to her, and the deeper thought, of course, the wonder, of what she might do to them if she is capable as her bold step states.

I can’t even really decide what he did to her, blinking with a confusion that is readily available in the lines of my face as I look from the boy to the woman to the hybrid child in a wonder as to what the fuck is happening.

Misogyny?

What is that?

In an equal flaring of outrageous audacity, the child snaps up, her little voice striking like whips in a language I don’t understand at the lavender lady who glows with some sort of magic, though I do catch something about a damsel in distress. In a flurry of female insanity, the buckskin is twirling about to swat at Abraham with the thick, horse like tail which grows from her haunches, and the kid is trying to rip it out – I find myself with my chin tucked low and aureate eyes wide at how badly this has all gone, and so fast.

I respond to the apology offered to me by the lavender witch with backward slipping ears, not really liking being pulled in as her knight in shining armor after she’d essentially kicked dirt in Abraham’s face and spat upon his hooves. I take a step away from her, physically distancing myself so as not to share the impression that I’m going to defend her for running her mouth – she shouldn’t talk crap to a group of strangers (one with a twin team of dragons to boot) if she can’t back it up.

"Disrespect?" the word is a scoff, followed by a bark of a laugh that mocks her unfortunate use of a term that means something much different to me than it does to her, apparently.

"You’re not a Queen here, sweet cheeks," I state, my tail swaying behind me in a partially hostile gesture that states just how little tolerance I have for being drug into arguments against my will by bossy ladies (even if they have really great asses), "nobody owes you shit, and you'd better figure that one out fast."