you were bringing on the end, you do so well -- Straia & Killdare

[Killdare]

no matter what we breed we still are made of greed

As night settles, the Chamber falls into silence. As dark and thick as is rumored to favor their hearts, their monsters. Killdare paces the borders, as he is known to do time and time again. He has done so since his life began here it seems, likely he will continue to do so until he can longer find strength to walk or fly.

Everything is still this evening. Too still, too quiet. The Chamber Colonel waits on baited breath for whatever has dulled the monsters in their dark home. It seems to him they have all grown dormant, hibernating in whatever realms they flee too. War rouses them not, for still they slumber in the deep recesses of the pine forest. What they wait for? He doesn't begin to know.

What he does know, is the unease at which the ravens seem to bend. Their movements at unrest, before they begin to caw and cackle against the veil. A few dive around his head, in return he jabs at them with his wings. Shooing them, wondering what the hell has upset their tiny little brains. "Bug off the lot of you!" He barks, sounding just as gruff as a cantankerous old man.

His shouts are only greeted with words, a snaking tendril of thought invading his mind.
Straia. Killdare too, if you care.

He can't say he knows the voice, never once having heard its dulcet tones. He can't say he enjoys them either, as coaxing as it may be. He shakes his earthy head, locks of black splaying across has face as he snorts. Killdare's never been overly fond of magicians. He isn't sure that time has changed that opinion at all either. Instead of moving his legs, he moves his head, he flares his nostrils. Prying for a scent on the air, one that is foreign, the one that doesn't coincide with the rest.

The night is entirely lacking, of course, he thinks.

Instead of disregarding the invasion he moves forward, scraping along the pines as he goes. He's never been overly quiet this one and in his home he doesn't find the need to try. A tickle finally reaches him, pawing at his hide like the tingling sensation when circulation returns. Painful at first, an irritation but one that leads to the source of the commotion.

Here he finds himself in the presence of the voice, in the presence of the blackish bay magician that sent it. One that speaks of War, of timing and who will push the first domino. He waits though, he waits for Straia as he knows he should. If the bay could do anything right, he could serve- this he knows. In the meantime he seeks answers to questions of his own.

"Don't think I've had the pleasure." Which can only mean, who are you? A flick of his tail as he observes the man through glassy green eyes.

KILLDARE

this is my kingdom come

The Dragon Lord & Colonel of the Chamber