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Komodo was a sober fellow — always had been, and likely always would be. His style of performance pertained to religion and pontifical ceremony only; there was chanting involved, but the words were given voice by the beast deep inside, inspired by his smokes and medicines and sacrificial trinkets. That was his place — upon the pulpit, communing the gods and requesting their favor. That was his art, and it came from the heart and was performed with a superabundance of passion. The singing and the dancing was best left to the women, for they sounded both better and looked better than males, and was quite endearing. Sure, in his travels he had known men to do this too, but he also knew then to have certain proclivities, and Komodo was certainly not a gay wolf.

Neither was Brontide, as the man was something of a lothario — but sometimes he wondered about the songful brute. 

With a tickled smirk painted upon his maw, Komodo followed Sirimiri’s gaze to watch as the ouroboros struggled and harmlessly gnawed upon each other. This was typical of the siblings and the playfulness of it all reminded the earthstalker of the tiny Coelacanth, after her feral tendencies had been cajoled into submission and she had recovered from whatever trauma had brought her to the island [he guessed she would never be able to speak more than simple words and hushes phrases, so he may never know]. At times he wondered what the sprite was doing, but felt confident that she was safe beside Stockholm — a man who was a stranger to him, but somehow he trusted implicitly.

Siri walked away to resume her pickings and Komodo strode lazily over to other two, standing abreast their tangled forms. He pressed his cedar-stained visage against Serein and gave her one, two nudges as if bestowing her endeavors with his silent support.