Red is a pulsing color: it is the shade of blood and passion. It throbs around the basilisk, though he does not know it. Serpents do not take head to the color of the world. It fades black and white and grey, and it is the heat that pulls him closer, the faint trails of the vermin that lead him to his kill.

He glides in the underbrush. It is a new land, but he does not take heed in the boundaries he crosses. He is mindless when he hunts; calculated and cunning, yes, yet there is no thought there. He is a slave to the urges of his snakeflesh as he crawls on powerful coils, slithering through the current of his most raw, current desires. He craves for meat.

It is only when another sort of pungent odor reaches him that he gives pause to these animal urges. He pauses, knowing what it is he picks up—reveling in the detail of such a scent, for his snake’s sense is superior in that regard. He tastes it in the air, hot and throbbing, and it is enough to pique his interest, to bring some semblance of the man back into the body of the beast. His hunger shifts, changes; he remains ravenous, though the targeted flesh is altered, now.

He changes.

--

The process is always long, and arduous, and yet he has taught himself how to muffle the groaning discomfort as he retreats back into horseflesh. He lays there for some moments, hidden in the underbrush as he pants through the pain in his limbs that slowly ebbs away. It is a sharp pain, the sort that bursts in great, sickening waves—yet it never lasts long.

He stands upon pillars of obsidian, and he can still smell her (for it is a mare) though his senses are muffled by the cloak of a horse. He knows she is not near—and wonders, then, how it is that a mare could smell so strongly. Is it the ridiculous reds of the forest that has gotten her blood pumping so?

He goes to search for her; she is not so difficult to find. Like a great black pearl lost
in a great trove of rubies, she stands out, an abyss in the blinding crimson brilliance. She steams; her skin seems to burn hot, her form taut as she regards the roaring falls. He tilts his head as he regards her. He wonders if he wanders into a trap.

“You seem vulnerable,” he accuses. The temptation is too evident.

”Watch for Circe.”

[I am a trashcan and I am so sorry ;-;]


He wonders, even then, if he should have eaten her.

She sidles to him, sticky with her sweat and her woman-scent, her eyes fluttering everywhere except towards sense. She is displayed before him, speaking in sultry tones that turn ribbons in his head, bowties and loop-de-loops and everything that refuses to secure the knot. Ridiculous ribbons, he decides. Her scent is overpowering.

His eyes obey the wishes of a dancing body, and prey upon her flesh intensely, shamelessly, appraising a body thrown at his feet (for that is what she is doing, yes?).  He decides she is--inadequate. Not quite an ugly specimen, but she could’ve done without the absurd blue hues on her legs (ridiculous ribbons) the unseemly splashes of white against her face, her rear hocks. A solid black would’ve been much more appropriate, he decides. Her form is correct, as well, although it is smaller than he would like, thin and boney, his taste for the female body spoiled by the sweet rolling hills and valleys of his herdmate Shida: he is forever ruined by the lewd, arbitrary pleasure of a fleshy mound that ripples when struck.

He settles back on one rear hoof; his brow is cocked, pleasantly so, and he sighs a deep, purring sigh. To stall for time to allow his brain to work, to placate her dazzling, expectant blue eyes (always, always blue eyes). Before, perhaps, he would’ve bedded her and been done with it, washed of her company and forgetful of the incident within hours—but some caution whispers in his ear, perhaps from Ka’Ora’s slender chest, her worrisome, careful heart. The results of his conquest now walk the earth—powerful Oizys, sharp Enyo, savage Merlin— and their births have stirred something within him, an awakening, the dawning of a new age and destiny. He has learned his sperm is valuable, and he must cast the seed carefully, in fertile grounds, where the monster that grows from it is great indeed. He must be fastidious.

This mare here—this black harlot on the verge of ugliness, skating the borders of ridiculousness, of stupidity—could she bear him a child that is worthy of his seed and blood? And if not, how hard would it be to kill it—and her, if it should come to pass? Would it be worth the effort, the trouble, to, perhaps, rear a child born by this sweaty creature?

He wonders again: perhaps he should’ve eaten her?

The growl that erupts from his throat is a purr, a thick sigh of subtle longing. “I’m not sure about hero,” he teases, and his tail curls behind him, and his eyes are handsomely set beneath those strong brows of his, “or a villain, or anything such as that. Perhaps—I am just a lost little boy, just as you are a lost little girl.” The words twist on his tongue playfully, skilled in timbre, in volume and tone. He strokes her velvet spine with his tongue—studying her, deciding where she would fit in his plans, if she were to fit, indeed.“You must’ve wandered far from your home, wherever it may be, just to find some…help…for your dilemma…”

His eyes are sly, the light sparkling with a wicked light as they fall upon her. Predator's eyes. "How is it that you've failed to find someone from your home to help in your...problems?"

”Watch for Circe.”

I'm a northern lady.

Northern lady.

She doesn’t call herself “wild”, or alludes to the life of a gypsy. No, she is of the north, that harsh place of ice and glaciers, and Reginald knows there is a herd there. The Basin. It is a key that quells the easy, tempting option of just eating the poor soul.

A child in the Basin is appealing.

He knows his eldest children shall reside in the Edge when they are old enough—their paternity secret, their identity safe so that tiny bodies may nurture themselves into cold-hearted, useful maturity (Enyo knows her duty). Merlin was borne by a countryman, and so she shall be reared by the blazing hot winds and sand of his homeland—it is just as well, for he feels Merlin will be one that needs to be watched.

To have another pair of eyes and tiny feet in yet another corner of the map incites his curiosity so much more, his sense of pride and a growing force of driving purpose. His actions leap before his schemes, and he must catch up. There is an opportunity in those sable, boney hips.

As for that, well. One of them would kill me should I ask, and the rest are all unworthy maggots.

Does she speak of the stallion Öde?

Reginald remembers how the child (the man) had stalked those icy halls in their youth—he wonders if the brute had decided to stay there after all. He wonders what it means for the red-eared lord to have found this woman distasteful, while Reginald stands here himself considering whether to take him to bed. He wonders which sort of ramifications he might have in the future, to plant his seed in the fields of an ally? Should he be told? Should Reginald keep the secret safe against his breast, like he does for all others?

His thoughts are cut short.

Are you game or what? I don't have all day.

He could’ve eaten her, just for that smug comment. It takes all of him, every iota of his focus, his self-control, to keep the ease in his features, to stop his ears from pinning themselves against the bulk of his neck. This beggar finds herself a chooser--and where it not for the virtue of her homeland, the possibilities of a foal borne by a forgettable, replaceable womb. He decides for now—it is worth it.

And if she proves herself detestable, and the child worthless—why, it would bring him that much more pleasure to tear her apart, to shred the child before her very eyes. He would revel in teaching that lesson.

“Of course I understand,” he breathes to her—and it is his smokiest voice, his most tantalizing purr that he uses, so that he may set the immediate mood, “If you would…?” He does not wait for her to invite him forward—he approaches the sweat-soaked mare, and he takes.




He is never a gentle creature—he has never tried to be—although he cannot stop himself from his roughness, his meanness after her petty words, and he hopes she is sore and broken somewhere.  



[So sorry about the wait! I wanted to line up this post/ stats posting with Kansas' application with Bathsheba!

”Watch for Circe.”