Dawnlark Plains don't call [m]e grimgram

"What, that's not your name?" Grimalkin quipped in a lazy baritone, slewing his own muzzle around to take stock of the female.  She was younger than him, not that that was a particularly hard thing to achieve, and had a blunt tongue he found much to his liking.  "Guess I'll have to pick another song, then."  He'd never had a girl named Elvira before, but he wouldn't have turned one down.  His eyes twinkled, for once appearing their true fiery bourbon color instead of how they looked in any light except near-direct sun: kind of brownish.

"I'm Grimalkin," he said, cutting straight to the point, "but I go by many names."  He waggled his eyebrows, or tried to.