Draco is minding his business, truly, for once. Biding his time in the Meadow and putting off his reunion with Dove he is sure will be, at the very least, uncomfortable. Like Bardot, he is focused on the last remnants of Autumn’s healthy grass. He is nibbling only, not fully invested in filling his stomach with vegetation when he could now hunt animals.
Bardot’s thoughts precede her approach, allowing the demon to be aware of her presence before she notices him. He sighs into the ground, red eyes zeroing in on the bits and pieces of soil and yellowing, cracked grass. Too often he feels exasperation if he is not in the mood to terrify, and it takes all of his might to not radiate waves of fear as he seethes into the earth. He does lift his head, ever-polite as the once Prince of Pangea, mouth widening in a fanged smile that was clearly insincere.
What do you want?
Draco doesn’t bother speaking out loud, instead pressing the question lazily into the unicorn’s mind. It’s almost a coo, the tone he uses. A good mask for the irritation he feels and the typical way he treats women too bold or too stupid for their own good. He is a creature that could likely kill her in the blink of an eye, and she does not shy away.
Like Tirza, like Morgayne, like Desire, like Dove—she does not turn away.
But he doesn’t think it’s for the same reasons them, no. Bardot’s mind betrays too many of her thoughts, what strange things she is attracted to.
