The tawny beast bows his head and knee in turn, taking me by surprise. I am not accustomed to such displays towards me. I am like a dog slinking under the tables at a feast, sniffing out juicy scraps. Worse than that even, I am but the shadow of a cur.

It makes me simper slightly. The smile is a meager twist on my lips and a spark in my eyes, but I hope it will not portray the amusement in my heart, but rather the gratitude. Too often have I come across those who think their tongues need wagging as often as their lungs pull in air. I would wish my fate many a time upon those rude nuisances, worse than the crickets that sing from dawn 'til dusk. It's better that I'm not a unicorn, as I'm sure I'd have become very talented at the taking of tongues by now.

Either way, I hope whatever expression I show, has covered up my initial response of shock. Likely the brute's head was still to the dirt then.

He rises with a shuffle of wings and a curtain of mane. I look at him, lips pursed in thought, and think that he is surely a lion. In color, hair and regal manner this stallion is much like the golden felines. I would be fool to regard him so highly though, when he's yet to flex his claws or bare his teeth.

I nod my head low and slow in reply to the words spoken. It would be unwise to take that as an acceptance though, as I do not make to turn my body away from his path, letting him in, nor to stand beside him as a new brother. I wonder just what rights I have in judging him, but I know this much. Though the herd is in need of bodies, it is only the able bodied we have use for. We need lions, not dogs that will roll onto their backs at the first who approach. Though I appreciate his manners, I need to know that he has more than bowing recited - after all, if he would bend a knee to one like me, what would he do to our ferocious enemies, I wonder wryly, piss himself?

I hope not, I do like him.

I throw my tail around my right side then with a sudden shift of my legs ad a wet slap of the heaping pile of black hair. I dip my stance, haunches tight with movement as I pull the coiled strings about like a brush. Ink swells from their tips and splashes onto the misty earth. I twist and turn the fluid, shaping it to my mind's eye and my heart's will. I ask him in the only way I can, just what he is worth and what he has to offer, by painting.

I illustrate first the lion I consider him, teeth snapping at the throats of our foes. Is he a warrior, a protector? I glance sidelong at him, curious to see his reaction.
I let that image shatter into small droplets before rebuilding him as a dog, sly and sneaky as I. Will he prefer the shadows to the sun, stealth to the war cries? I wonder.
I paint for him each service he would provide for us in turn, each time pointedly looking to him for his inclination.

He says he will serve. I want to know how.