Moonspear like the legends of the phoenix, all ends with beginnings

A remark about perception ignited and dwindled to naught on his tongue; Dirge believed only a lesser hound would have been foolish enough to get bitten. She had turned into that pit viper again and he, well, he was no master snake charmer. There were no lavish stories like the one he found himself in now, and any past ploys had come from behind curtains and closed doors. Most of which, he would not admit, were in failure. Every word off his tongue was precise, every decision only blind in pretend.

He hovered over her flank with distant interest and that too was feigned. He heard every word, thought he got the gist of her intent, but also had enough smarts about him not to try anything funny. He was not a lesser hound—he did not know how to be to begin with—all was in trial and error. So far, he had made the right choices; a lesser hound would have been disappointed by bridled interests. When her dark gaze alighted on him once again, he met it and held it with a long, pursed smile.

"Sounds fair enough," he replied, "and I suppose if I mess up their handiwork you have a name to give them." Little did he know, she had probably handed it out already. Maybe all of them knew about him from stem to stern. "Now normally I would say ladies first on such things, but seeing how I am no master pamperer, perhaps it would be best that you demonstrate." If he were so dirty, then it would do him no good to dirty her too, would it?