The Lagoon is cupped hands cradling a blue gem to a lush green breast- and its beating heart the Kingbreaker can hear in green-muffled voices all around and the whispering, chittering crunch of frost-glassed grass underfoot. He's unmolested here, but whether this is because his shadowy shape goes unnoticed or because what has noticed him is picking its battles, he neither knows nor cares. He has interest only in what is immediate; in what calls to h- His dark little ears prick, because someone has done exactly that, and who is he to deny such an earnest voice? So his storm-grey body twists in place, light as a pirouette, and drifts through the undergrowth after that siren cry.

From out the first tender, bright spears of sun struggling through the thickness of the green, he spots him- soft and pale as ash rubbed between the hands to a fine velvet powder, riven with white like scars from massive fangs catching him at shoulder and hip and just behind the skull (where it was hardest to resist a greater force- as if highlighting where to press, the Kingbreaker thinks, tilting his great steel head as he delicately steps over the last scraggle of brush between them). Bright, warm eyes are waiting for him, full of an inquisitive gleaming, and his dark lips peel back in a smile that amounts to comfortless gentility (because he knows most of all that pitilessness is the greatest mercy he's capable of).

"I'm here," his baritone purrs, shy of a threat, not quite an offering, peering at him with a disconcerting thoughtfulness through the writhing dark fire of his curls as he steps closer. "What is it you need, dear one?" and perhaps there is the slightest telling pressure in his careful slow cello voice upon need, though his churned-earth stare (the only heat in his steel face) is innocently empty as a fresh-dug grave.