_{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?

An order. It is an order he is given.

He swallows it, bites it, chews it to dust; he pummels it, fights with it, wrestles it back; he swallows the venom pooling on his tongue, keeps the fires licking the back of his throat at bay. He blinks back the bite in his eyes; they remain cool, docile, receptive. He masters the impulse of his body, honed from so many years as a wild, roguish thing with its own destiny.

He is given an order—and he obeys.

He wonders briefly, with a smile so tastefully absent of the bitterness that churns inside—he wonders if his winglessness means anything to his superiors, his countrymen. He wonders if it marks him, someone or something different from the status quo. He has pledged himself as a member of a herd of pegasi; he ponders the musings of a “racist”, and how ugly his spider whore had thought of a hornless little girl. He wonders if the same principle holds true with those who sport heavy, useful, ridiculous appendages from their shoulders. He does not mind them, of course—they only serve as another thing to dodge, another thing to pierce.

He comes upon a delicate clearing—one he is most familiar with. The setting of his first fucking, where he finally discarded that irksome little insect that called herself a spider. He gazes about the tranquil setting, bored and ever so slightly restless; his mind circles back to other thoughts he often has, thoughts of mares and this herd’s audacious nature.

He laughs in order to calm the rage in his breast—all these women he actually soldiers alongside. They make women soldiers in this place! Instead of bearing children, they bear arms—in some cases they bear both, foolish in their thinking that such fragile creatures are capable of so much. He snorts, alone (for his vassals soar high above, eyes for their wingless master), his eyes lidded against the ludicrous thoughts.

There was one such woman he was supposed to come here with—some wingless scrawny creature who (thankfully) had the sense to don a healer’s garb instead of a warrior’s belt. He does not know where she is now; he did not linger to wait. She did not appear to be a child, regardless of her smallness. She can find her own way.

The Basilisk sighs, pacing through the peace of this quiet grove. He wonders if his idle snooping is valuable; he wonders if he's being a good boy.

"talk talk talk"

_{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?

An order. It is an order he is given.

He scents it, even as Ka’Ora detects them—and her thoughts are a confused rush of things, for the impression she has is new to her and she begs for enlightenment. The Basilisk nostrils flare, picking up the musk of a thing he knows all too well. He’s not so surprised; the mood here is calm and quiet-- relaxing, romantic, even. It would stand to reason that lovesick fools would come where to fuck under whatever guise they chose to call “lovemaking” or “commitment”. People loved to make this into such a frilled, fancy thing. He wonders why, but it is a brief wonder.

His job is not to wonder. His job is to be a good boy and snoop about a land that does not belong to him.

A plot begins to form, however, as the odor grows pungent and he can distinguish the two scents intermingled with each other. The plot begins to thicken as he finds he recognizes those scents in a twist he did not expect when he first accepted such a menial mission. His gait hesitates; his brow cocks. Ka’Ora begins her descent as she detects the shift in her master’s mood. It is a curious thing he thinks—a mixture of disbelief and a growing sense of amusement bubbles in the pits of her master’s mind, and she would like to know what he laughs at.

It does not take long before he sees them—drenched in sweat, breathing as though they had run much too far for much too long. She is a small as he remembered seeing her, blue-eyed and deplorably sparse in her legs; the other is a grand stud, mismatched eyes just now dusting themselves of a familiar, berserker glaze as they rest upon the older twin.

Reginald pauses, surveying the scene.

He throws his head back—

--and laughs.

Ka’Ora beats her wings just as she swoops low ever her master’s wither; she lands there upon familiar scars for her talons, and she coos softly, a sound lost amidst the braying of her master. Oh, how he laughs! It is a loud, raucous, infectious laughter, booming and dark and handsome as it bursts from his throat; she shifts against him, ruffling her feathers and savoring the pleasure of her master’s gaiety. It is rare for the Basilisk to display such things as this, such open enjoyment; she latches onto the sound of his laughter, and it turns out that her love runs ever more eternal.

Do you seek her?, asks Brother.

What a fine jest, that is! The Grey-Eye’d finds his breath—just barely. “Not quite for this,” he says, and even his voice smirks, “She’s much too scrawny for me.” His eye does not care to find her. She does not matter, not here, where Brothers reign.

Abraham touches his shoulder; Reginald responds with a nip at his brother’s poll as he passes. Mirth still bubbles within his breast; at least his brother got his prize. “We have been sent here to…patrol this place,” Reginald explains, walking past the two ”lovers” as Ka’Ora’s dark eyes glue themselves to Abraham’s soot-black body, mesmerized, “…though I suppose she’s certainly found other duties to attend to.”

It lifts his spirit, if only somewhat, to know that these women of the Dragon’s Throat—are nothing more than women, at the end of the day. His tail weaves gently beside him; he is appeased. He is assured.  


"talk talk talk"