Accept the fires from which I came ;;

The slight inclination of her head, dipped low in a sign of respect, does not go unnoticed but nor is it bestowed any amount of attention. It is not something he expects from those he comes across – though a King for many seasons now, the idea of the monarchy is still a strange concept for the two-toned brute. And so he stares, unblinking, even as that silver back arches like a cat does when threatened, her ears pinning back along her skull. He is mildly surprised at her vehement response; his words had not been all that condescending, after all. Vaguely amused by her sudden, unmitigated fury, he meets her gaze with a cryptic one of his one, silver-tipped ears twitching with every syllable she spits his way. Skin stretches and furrows in a mockery of a frown, those hollow pupils flickering with thought. Had she not, upon their first meeting, asked for a place among the Scythians? She had been sweet then, vibrant and full of life. A far cry from the spitting feline that rages before him now.

Ashen lips say nothing to the contrary though, for it is obvious in the curve of her neck and the fire in those eyes that to claim a history in Scythia would be devastating to her current self-image. Shoulders roll briefly in a nonchalant shrug, gaze clearly stating his belief in the old adage ‘to each their own’. He cannot see why she feels so wronged, why she feels the need to stand before him full of such vexation, but he does not ask, only listens quietly as she continues.

Like water from a duck’s back rolls the title of chauvinistic pig – such words for such a delicate lady! – but storm-clouds begin to darken otherwise molten eyes. Though his gems are not tied to his emotions, the winter wind begins to gather in force, tickling along Taboo’s back, lifting mane and tail from their static positions. Finally, her tirade finished, sarcasm drifting away at the tug of his insistent winds, the Scythian King speaks, tones dangerously low. “You will not come into my kingdom and find it in yourself to order me about. You will leave without speaking to Gobardon, I assure you. Be it by your own effort or mine, well … that’s your decision.” Blazed skull dips low, darkened eyes peering up between a wild forelock. There is no flexibility in that cold gaze that finds her own. She has proven, in the last few moments, that she remains an impetuous child, unable (or unwilling?) to withhold her every thought from being spoken. Though he would rather not force her from his home, the silver-crowned man is willing to do so, displayed clearly in that unforgiving gaze. He has learned to rein in his temper, clasping it in an iron fist, but the senate member of the North is sorely trying his patience. Perhaps, had she approached the matter in a different way, the patchwork stallion would have been more than willing to bend, allowing her an audience with the Scythian prisoner. But the mere thought of doing so now grates on already fraying nerves …