#ralph-tow

Tybalt snorted almost in sync with his predecessor, deciding to dismiss the prior protests against idly sitting by. Let the humanoids be toyed with. He still had to get over the chip on his shoulder that was placing the blame on human existence for--well. Almost every single problem in his life...

He led Ryan down a narrow hallway lined with candelabras from various different eras, past a round room of glass ornaments, and into a small chamber of polished oak and perfect organization; which smelled vaguely of honey and lemon with something like attic dust and rosemary mixed in. There was a warmth in the air of Quinton Rutherford's office that somehow counteracted all drafts of the outside rooms with a pleasant, hearth-y welcome without the use of flame.

Tybalt passed over to one of no less than twelve cabinets that lined the half-moon room and withdrew a thin black folder, leafing through it to find the form for Ryan accordingly.

"You should meet him sometime," he said abruptly, holding a fountain pen and the form out to Ryan beside the grand old desk Quinton had lovingly restored to full working order from its former home (at the bottom of the Atlantic). "Rutherford. He's...decent," Tybalt admitted; grudgingly. "For a humanoid." He shrugged a dismissive shoulder. "Stuffy," he added, somewhat haughtily.

"...I see," Tybalt said, not quite sure why Ryan saw fit to do something like this--but deciding not to question it. He'd been rude enough to his distant relation tonight without trying to douse a fire with further gasoline. His eyes flickered across Ryan's face, before he pressed his lips together, worried them briefly, and motioned for the older dragon to follow him with a flick of his head, dark brown hair flopping briefly into his eyes. 

"Then--follow me, I'll have you fill out the proper forms for...for a donation. To run by Mr. Rutherford..." he shook his head slightly as he began to lope off; all legs.

Suspicious squinting ensued, followed by another, fainter snort of unease. Mentions of phoenixes, magical families, queens--how like Ryan, to align himself with non-dragons so readily. Then again, he was older and (probably) wiser. Tybalt's gaze slipped away again, and the younger serpent flexed his fingers, sheathing and unsheathing rust-colored claws, letting the illusion of humanity fade back over them, repeatedly, until he was calmer and less prone to snippy commentary.

"...I am perfectly content," he said, trying to keep the annoyance from ccreeping back into his voice. "I merely--I was...thrown off," Tybalt admitted; muttering softer now. "To see you, I was not--expecting..." His words trickled into nothingness; coins tossed into a wishing well by a spoiled child.

"...you've been well?" Tybalt asked awkwardly, at long last. How did one catch up on a feeble connection sustained merely by blood? It wasn't that he didn't want to know Ryan, it was that he was...somewhat ashamed.

Being a squishy, humanoid curator in a museum on an island few knew about was hardly laudable by dragon standards. And his track record as a dragon; besides, was...rather poor, by anyone's standards.

Then again, Tybalt held himself to the very highest.

There was a temporary silence as Tybalt moved from cautious to contemptuous to calm. A registered form of understanding between the knitting of his brows and the faint twist of his lips. The younger; smaller dragon folded his arms and surveyed Ryan with a faint air of disapproval; tentative, but genuine. 

"Of course," he said coolly, but not impolitely. It was more of a matter-of-fact, customer service representative tone. A tech agent helping a customer reset their router. "You want something." The derision crept into his voice with a fresh snort of smoke, and Tybalt shook his head, reflecting bitterly on the warmth (or lack thereof) of lizards; and how reptiles kept no families. He was very much the cynic, after all.

And yet the appeal of a donation remained. As did the curiosity of hearing the details of such a thing.

The wyrm curled in on itself under the human shape. Tybalt's massive form, contained with accordion flexibility beneath a guise of humanity. He watched Ryan with uncertain nerves, jaw tense and shoulders tenser, hands rigidly furling and unfurling by his sides. 

Licking his lips, the pale figure tried to speak, but quailed under the initial smile on Ryan's face. Stomach tying itself into snakely knots, the dragon tried to call on his old and fiery pride; lifting his chin and looking haughtily upon Ryan--which likely came off mostly akin to someone squinting into the sun.

"Right. Yes. It is Tybalt," he muttered, smoothing his hands down his front once more. "And--I am the assistant--associate curator and director of creative design." He paused, then glanced away, faintly red-cheeked.

There was a momentary silence as Tybalt digested both the words and the sound of his many-times-great forefather. Grandfather, rather. The main root of his family's impressive, yet intimidating line.

Tybalt quickly checked himself in the nearest reflective surface. Fixed his dark brown hair; the horrible protein addition to his human disguise. Why hadn't Quinton guided his form into something more--he didn't know; appealing by human standards, he supposed. He hated wearing the human shape, but it was necessary. Except when facing familial ties, of course. 

He tugged his bowtie into place, sucked in a shallow breath, and slowly slunk back into sight, emerging from the shadows with a flicker of concern crossing his face; masked in swiftness to something like polite indifference.

Admiring the tacky display of Victorian ceramics Quinn and he had lovingly arranged on the back-lit, glass shelves of the museum's less-visited Northern wing, Tybalt delicately shifted one dancing lady in pale pink so that she faced a stern soldier figure in red. The two, when silhouetted by the gleaming shelf backing, created a heart between themselves. It was--endearing. It was delightful, in its silly, human nuance. He'd always preferred things over people. Or so he told himself. Things were more distracting. More easy to organize. People; other dragons, what-have-you--organic matters were messy.

Tybalt didn't like a mess.

Which was why, in fact, he hid away most of the time in this little museum. Why he chose to rearrange knickknacks and fidget with old, moldy furniture. It was why he was able to maintain some...rigidity. And not fall back onto the more...toxic aspects of his former condition. He could treat it; temper it, the desire for...things.

A scent caught his attention, however, and the dragon's eyes shifted; irises dyeing gold and pupils narrowing to slits. He didn't need the scent to know who was coming. He could feel the presence of another dragon--a pressure, as it were.

So he did the only thing a logical serpent could do.

Red from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes, Emmy smiled modestly and ducked his head, fidgeting with the brim of his battered fedora, hazel-greens fond. 

"Yeah, you'd be right in that regard, sir," he admitted softly, still smiling from ear to ear. "Mah pack is very much mah family..." Simple as that.

Looking back up at Ryan under fading pink hair, the wolf ran a hand through his locks in an effort to be more presentable, searching the mysterious man's face for signs of where this was all leading. Maybe not death, but something sinister? Yet the longer Ryan talked, the more at ease Emmy felt.

He also got the distinct feeling Ryan was Don Draper's personal coach, but he kept that comment to himself.

Blinking owlishly, Emmy peered at Ryan and shyly hunched up his shoulders. Was this--was this the head of the Isle? A mayor; governor or king of some sort? He suddenly felt very small--grin baffled and bright eyes bemused.

"Oh--shucks. Ah reckon y'give me too much credit," Emmy protested meekly, ducking his head anew. "But, ah--Ah appreciate the thanks. Thanks in return."

It was the first time in his life, he wagered, that he had ever been called smart. By people other than his momma, probably.