He heard her shifting, though wiser than to stay put, Baphomet finds that more often than not her fangs set heat in his blood. Her fury went unmatched in their realm, and Baphomet has almost always chosen her during winter for such a reason. While he did his manly duty in providing Demonic females with their fair share, Baphomet has only ever made a repeat appearance at Ishtar's would be bed. So when she lunges, Baphomet brings his head up, giving her the side of his neck for her daggers to bury in the thick fur and cause an unbidden rumble escape from his chest. He backs up, for her alone will he willingly move. To others he is a damn near impossible obstacle to get around, his height and weight making it difficult for even the strongest of wolves to simply move.

              She spoke, and Baphomet finds an odd smile upon his face as she submits to him. He reaches out his muzzle to graze his fangs against the top of her muzzle, even as her lips rise. ”Oh, Sweetling, there is but one more stop to make before our journey concludes. I take you now to Iromar, where I have stolen a crown to sit atop my head.” His smile grows wider as he gazes down on her, tail raising in his fashion as he turns, eying the badger. ”But, perhaps, we should find you something more to eat? I know how...irritable you get with Rogue and Lillith if you do not satiate your need.” His accent is heavily Latina today, only in the presence of his chosen female, however, does he ever use the ancient tongue.

              His mouth feels heavy with the need to speak to her this way, though truly it is only reserved for the most special of occasions. The rituals they all perform, between lovers, between brothers and sisters, mothers to cubs. It is taught to all Demons, though not many of them use it since the Angels also prefer the purity of Latin tones. It is perhaps the one thing that holds the two lines together anymore. With Ishtar, he feels the need to speak it always. He will hold himself, until he feels the time is right for such things. He has always liked her far more than the others. Her spirit striking a match and setting fire to the would be walls of his spirit, her ways illicit more excitement in him than any other, and her strength is the other side to his. Where he is brute strength and a tactical mind, hers is more...swift and ruthless, a fire raging against her enemies. He admires this in her.

              She has been the bearer of his line twice, once before the two nestled in her abdomen. The two year olds they had left behind for a good reason, to protect their young minds from the corruption that would be Angelic filth. To shield them from the fangs of their would be enemies. The two they carried with them now, they would grow up in this world, they would know it well, and indeed perhaps carry on the Demonic way. He moves beside his chosen female, stroking his fangs against her spine to ease the standing of her ink shaded hackles, and running his nose against the swell of her stomach. A deep rumbling purr escaped him, like that of a great cat, a happy male in the company of his preferred female. The pups nestled within squirm as if sensing their father, and they kick and press against his muzzle as he watches. Her frame has always been the thinner set, and as such she offers a sight many males do not get until very near the due date.

              He can spot the two obscure shapes of the pups within his preferred, and cannot help the smile that grows on his face. He then nips her rump and moves away, tail up and waving as he makes his way to leave, fully expecting her to follow him.