He has hunted in these blood-red forests before—and he refuses to be deterred from his prey once more. The forest screams for blood around him, a pulsing chant he cannot ignore (and he does not want to. Blood is hot. Blood is fresh).

He is not alone, however; this conquest is, queerly, not for him alone, not anymore. They are tiny shadows behind him, trailing along in his wake as he teaches himself not to lash behind him on impulse (for his body has been trained to hate the filly). They are surprising, however; their obedience is quiet and precise, even as his instruction remains veiled.

He has not spoken to his daughters individually, as he intends to very soon. All he knows of them is their spun-glass fragility of days-old children, the reluctance of their mother to allow him sole custody for these few hours. Reluctance, and not outright refusal, for the woman is not an idiot, and knows not to keep his children from him (he has not learnt her name). Their lives are his to do with as he wishes, demonstrated by the contract signed in the blood of mercy, sparing their lives at birth. She knows he could tear apart that contract at any moment he decides they are not worthy.

He has not decided this, not yet. There are things they must learn, facts they must be aware of, before he can truly pass judgment on their character.

“Oizys, Enyo,” he murmurs; he never calls them with a brash tongue. He waits until they come to his hip—never at his shoulder, he taught them better, never near enough to breach the barrier of familiarity, equality. “Listen, now,” he instructs them softly, his words driven, “I am going on a hunt, and you will follow, and watch.”

He does not know that his eldest child had already spilt her first blood; they do not speak until he asks, and now, he has not asked them (the hunger gnaws). “The blood of a monster runs through your veins,” he tells them, thick, rope-like tail weaving soundlessly behind him, “My blood. Never forget this. By my blood and only by my blood you are worthy of greater things. Clutch it close—otherwise you would be nothing, unfit for this world, crumpled and weak. Dirt beneath your hooves. Meat for your stomach.”

He does not know if he scares his children—and woe be to the child who exhibits fear. He snorts, squaring his stance, preparing for the change. It is never easier. “I will show you this weakness now,” he breathes, and before the tender eyes of his daughters, he bursts.

He never screams during, even though is spine, his bones, his muscles—everything breaks and re-shapes until he becomes sleek, powerful, true. He rears and regards his daughters with eyes that remain grey and his. “Watch,” he hisses and he follows the scent trail that had been just barely detectable in the cloak of horseflesh.

It is a blinding trail of heat and woman-odor that awaits him, painfully obvious, and he wonders, as he always does, how is it the equine species continues to exist when they are so simple to hunt, so easily found. His coils move through the crimson underbrush, expert in their execution, meticulous in the machinations of a perfect body. His eyes can detect the outline of a shapely woman, although, unfortunately for her, these assets of hers, valuable and pleasant, fail to satisfy the interest of the basilisk. His hunger is particular, and insistent.

He emerges—slowly, clinging to the shadows that wreath around her. The strike will come, soon. First he must study his quarry.   


[Reginald is in his basilisk form! I hope you don't mind my pp of Ozzy, Snow! Also, she can post!, although posting order is up to Emily and I!]


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