_{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?

It is almost shameful how flattery affects the Grey-Eye’d. He knows he must hold himself to such a higher standard of discipline as this, and yet he cannot help himself; any sort of praise given, however slight, however indirect, will always cause the shiver to run down the monster’s spine, will always tease the purr from the serpent’s lips. Yes, he agrees with her, it does take much indeed to bring me down, how astute of you to notice. His guard weakens, and drops, then, even as Ka’Ora continues to gaze upon the glass contraption with trepidation. However tedious and obnoxious her mannerisms, she does speak sense on this matter: whatever the effects of the plant may be, it is only a plant, and he doubts such a miniscule amount could wreak as much havoc as one might have cause to fear.

He watches. His eyes are careful and shrewd as he observes her use of the object, and how she lights it with the flames from her (formidable) companion. Ka’Ora simpers, kneading the frosted grasses beneath her talons as she keeps her eyes on the great hound. …Danger? she whispers into Reginald’s mind—but of course she is ignored, and she is not surprised by this. She knows her master is interested in other things at that moment. She does not take it personally; she licks the wound with grace.

The tip of the Grey-Eye’d’s tail twitches and curls as the smoke rings blow from her pale lips. Move, comes the command, and Ka’Ora stumbles away from where the stud lays upon the ground; he heaves himself to his feet, shaking the moister from his mane and the side he laid on (his hair is tousled and rakishly ruined, and he does not know this).

His steps are heavy as he comes closer, his eyes curving around the edges and crannies of the glass object, watching how the water boils, how the bulbs burn, how the smoke billows in a thick, sensuous ribbon as it wafts from the lip of the contraption. His eyes only lift, and his brow cocks, as she purrs at him a request, an imploration, to elaborate upon his sick, venomous warning.  “Certainly,” he breaths—and his voice is smoke even before the clouds of it have entered his lungs. “…but only if you’ll play nice and show me how to work this, Shi-da.” He does not remember saying her name before now; it had never mattered to him, though they bear the same crest and allegiance to their desert homeland.

Something laughs within him. He is so far from the borders, the churning, frozen ocean that isolates their home from the world; he is absent from the bottomless lists of duties and decrees that bind him intricately, forcing him into a dutiful form that he is growing to despise more and more by the day. He laughs now—because he is not alone.


"talk talk talk"