Summer in Pangea is hot as hell.
Draco gruffly keeps to himself, glowing red eyes focusing begrudgingly on the ground turning to red dust before him. He doesn't think of much else, simply: Why the fuck is it so hot? Why did I come back her before Autumn? Surely Dove and Desire are just fine without me. Desire, though an absent leader, is definitely fine without him; but Dove, she is most certainly worrying over him. The demon misses his friend, too, if he will ever admit it to himself. The woman's cruel illusions always offered him a good laugh.
There is guilt, too. So much guilt. For leaving Dove, for never visiting his father (and his father's oh-so-perfect family). For shirking his advisor position even if he has never claimed to be particularly good at giving advice (especially diplomatic, level-headed advice - there he leaned toward his deceased half brother: fire and death). Mostly, Draco swallows those feelings by scaring some wayward wanderer or wreaking general havoc in an otherwise peaceful area.
But you love to wallow.
At his side, the newly acquired hellhound huffs in what sounds like a snidely amused laugh. The demon sneers down at the creature, agitated that the companion he's been blessed with has a proclivity for picking on him.
"Shut up, Carl."
I told you my name is Geralt.
"I like Carl better."
Why?
"Because it makes you sound stupid. And as small as you look."
The hellhound peels his lips back to bare black fangs, then turns off to the left, away from Draco.
"Mission accomplished," the demon mutters to himself, flicking his gaze up just in time to catch the familiar sight of his fearless leader. She hears him, of course. Ever sharp, that Desire. A wide, pleased smile lifts his lips, one to match the look on hers.
"What can I say, I missed you," Draco answers, then nudges her hindquarters with the sides of his horns.
"It's hot as fuck in this dust-bowl. Why do we stay here?"
@[Desire] hehe
