Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

“Twice I’ve fallen from the peaks of mountains, if that helps,” the crow croaked, voice a bit hoarse, and as Firefly continued his own soliloquy the rogue stept closer. It was a daring move, a foolhardy move, and he shamelessly reveled in the impending heaviness soon to come at his nethers.

But the next words made him pause, and Vonnaruil took that moment to draw in a steadying and futile breath. The scuplted column constricted, worked, as he made himself speak entirely without his own will: “Yes, your old, lovely lady ripped out his throat. And my sister mended it once more.” A curl nocked itself in his riddled snout, at that — two remarkable females had toiled over Verx in their own ways.

He didn’t want to think about the other sex, though. From somewhere between his throat and lungs, a cresting rumble issued; and he trembled with restraint, with want, faint but there. How else could he goad, beg this damned male to just—? “I thought you might’ve liked to feel me straining beneath you,” he sneered, almost panted, “Here I am, and still you won’t overwhelm me. Perhaps I am sorely mistaken? ...Or too superior?”