Deepwood Weald rising

his pallid muzzle tipped slowly to belharra, tongue lolling as the flat glitter of his stare rested upon her. it was a warm expression, for a pair of lightless black eyes. "you're pretty, and you're my favorite," asmodeus deadpanned, before the corner of his mouth quirked sardonically and he groaned at her ridiculous jest.

"if i like what you pick, maybe i'll bring dessert," he smirked, jerking his muzzle toward belharra in lieu of actually going after her given the state of his stupid ankle.