There are many things that Blackthorne could be if he truly wished it. Patience, attentive, manipulative, whatever was needed to meet some end goal that only he had designed. There were games at work, stories waiting to unfold, and chess pieces in need of moving before they grew too stagnant in one spot. Iromar has burned in a flourish of rabid wolves but had thus far begun to settle into a sort of swayback motion - calm then bam, then calm, then death. Things would begin to coalesce soon. The longer the pups stayed away from their parents, the more antsy those parents would become. He had yet to harm the pups because they hadn't tried to do anything too stupid and what good would harm do when he had other plans for them?

The female before him is not one of those who would meekly bow or scurry away. It is the reason that he does not strike her with his white teeth. The reason he does not try to lay waste to her. There is FIRE in her; fight. He did not take well to those who would cower at the world with little to give it but he can see the coyness in those eyes and that swimming intelligence. Whatever Gazmala was, she was not some dumb broad out to try her wiles on the Darkbringer just for shits and giggles. She had a purpose but she also had to be taught what he stood for and what he did not.

She does not strike back. She is pushed slightly to the side, turning back towards him with a poised grace of one who refuses to be belittled. While his cowlick stands to attention, he does not press forward, merely stares down at her with that cobra-like expression, as if one wrong move will make him strike. In the flash of a moment, her face becomes impassive, her demeanor that of a strong wolf but also a subtle, slight submissiveness that eases the tension in his haunches. The blood rush makes his gums itch, the need to fight burning in him, but he thinks she is a valuable that he doesn't yet risk to lose.

Keeping his dominant posture with a little relaxation of his ears and muscles, he waits for her words. They leave him with a growing smirk on his face. "The great hunters are free to fly and to sing but they always come back to the same roost. What roost would you land at, bird?" His voice is once more purring, midnight silk brushing against her ears as his eyes slowly trail across her, his mind churning with ideas. A slick talker, she is, and there were many, many uses for one.