There is a pleasurable return growl given as he scrapes his teeth against her jaw. A gentle caress, his tongue lapping out in return to taste the earthiness of her fur. It settles some strange feeling inside of him, his eyes closing while she laps at him as well, offering friendship in that subtle gesture. Their friendship is more solid, more real than anything his father had with the queen of the plains, for Nyteshade does not feel the constant need to dominate. There is a headiness to such power but the headaches with it are enough that, for now, the boy does not care to indulge.

Menkhet grins and so does he. He is a mimic, almost, fascinated by her expressions; each giggle, growl, grin, groan. It would all be repeated at some point or another. She lifts her large paw, drawing him closer, and he allows it with a sort of awed expression before making a low sound in his chest, pleased. Her words are like fire to him, stirring, curious. Nyteshade pauses in every action then before slowly, his brows fall, giving his already grizzled looking appearance a fiercer look as he puzzles this. ”He has no crown to take, so I can’t really answer that.” His voice is almost childlike in it’s bluntness, as if that answers all the questions when it really doesn’t.

”But I’d like to see you try to take the asp in your jaws. You have some mighty big jaws, Savathun. I think asps are wily though, you might be surprised.” It is not really a defense of his father so much as an observation. He had traveled with Blackthorne for many moons, had helped wreck packs and stir havoc and somehow, his father always came out unscathed save for a few more markings on his pelt. Menkhet pulls away from him and he whines slightly, missing the warmth of her pressed against him, before abruptly rising to follow her. ”Where are we going?” He asks the air, smiling boldly, his stilted motions falling into step with her.

The moonlight gilds across her reddish fur, silvering the tips, and he watches the play for a few moments while she speaks. In response he shrugs. ”A bit of fun. It’s been boring the last few days.” Whether he meant blood sport to be fun or simple chaotic news, he didn’t share, but his words are tinged with eagerness. He bounces on his toes then jolts forward, stops, waits for her catch up, then continues, an erratic display of motion. His pale green-gray eyes flash when he glances back and forth, the moonlight catching, as they meander ever northward. ”I think you are taking me to the plains,” he coos suddenly, cackling once more before spinning around and stopping half in front of her, face in hers. ”You don’t plan to do some ritual and kill me, do you?” Rather than fear, there is playfulness, perhaps even eagerness there.