At those words, apprehensive ruby eyes looked up from the deep bow. The dark figure rose and regarded his Master. It was clear that centuries of suspicion and disbelief would not abandon the Djinn. He had to know if the Werewolf—Werehog, he corrected – was telling the truth. And for him to know, the Djinn would have to complete the bond he had with his Master.
An ebony hand reached out to settle on the light blue muzzle. A soft tickling at his fingertips was the only sign of change. A soft sigh escaped the Djinn. He didn’t know anything of his new Master aside from what he was told, but he could feel the truth. Or at least traces of it. He didn’t know who or what Mephiles was.
Or rather, what horrors the beast was capable of.
A large portion of his fear and surliness drained away. However that said nothing for his grumpiness, after all he had been buried.
At the touch on his snout, the cobalt creature felt a gentle tingle brush across his face. A part of him wanted to move away from the palm in basic instincts to shield himself; after all, he did remember how hot they felt back in the spire at their first meeting. The touch was simple and painless, and it made his tail give a slight twitch. He found it quite welcomed.