Lion Head Mesa the jokes' worn thin, the king's stepped in

Redwine eyes flashed across the odd lick of fur along the back of the witch-queen’s crown. A wound. Recent and severe. Leshen’s tongue flashed against the silverwhite of his chin, and his teeth shone slick in a grimace. Her olivestone gaze burrowed into him, leaving an imprint on his mind’s eye. He looked down at the bounty she had collected for him, meat and eggs, a meal fit for a mercenary.

He sniffed over the food, searching skeptically for that dangerously sweet scent he had done well to remember. Finding no threat of poison, Leshen returned his attention back to the priestess, ears twitching as he listened.

Black fur, silver eyes, silver markings. Large and arrogant.

Kill him.

The serpent wolf hunkered down before her, pawing the clam shells closer and starting to lap up the fish eggs. He was slow and methodical with this, pondering, considering, turning the idea over and over in his head.

Eventually, he looked up at the worn-down witch, her harried expression cementing his resolve. Leshen gathered a limb of fatty meat to himself then and snapped the bone in two with a single, resolute bite. He met her eye and nodded once. Deal.