The female before him comes to a halt, a shiver of recognition slipping across her figure as he speaks. Not recognition for him, but of what he signifies. Her scent is strong and alluring, the kind that is tempting if one is ready for a challenge. No doubt to pin her down it would take a legion and yet, despite the coldness that often spreads within him, Deathspeak feels a stirring within him. It causes his lips to twitch up, his tongue to race across those fangs and for his back legs to twitch. It is unlike him to feel such a sweeping passion; a desire for something or someone. She is lovely in her wicked grace as she turns towards him. Robust, like him, with the kind of melting eyes that bespeak her intentions. She is seeking the strong to help ease her, he thinks, and while he has never considered siring to be his specialty, it certainly could change.

For her.

Bold. She is boldness embodied. One who understood what she craved and delved for it. If he had to name her, he would name her Burn, because she is like fire - it scorches so bright and leaves behind nothing but cinders and burn in it's wake. He does not smile wickedly at her, but warmly, a spark of challenge and desire in his eyes as he steps in time to hers so that they meet in the middle. "It calls to me. You call to me." His nose outstretches now so that he can sniff her cheek and then he crowds even closer before slipping to her side, nose traveling down her figure while his shoulders rise, his steps becoming a prowl as he nears her haunches.

Her scent is overpowering and it makes his fangs glisten as they are revealed in the moonlight. "But I do not think you will come so easily," he tests, pressing his nose firmly at the top of her tail, waiting to see if she would explode --- for he senses he is about to get burned, and it is entirely possible that he is excited by the idea.