[mariah?!]

"You got money?" came the wyvern's rasping query, sinuous vocals accentuated by the careful, creeping gait that he adopted in his approach of the pair.

"Got money, we can talk. F'not, you might as well just get out and save your breath, 'cause we ain't cheap and the last man who tried to haggle with me failed spectacularly. Svara can show you where he's buried. Can't you, baby?" the wyvern purred huskily as he leapt onto the counter to greet his mate with a kiss, rough tongue dragging over an exposed clavicle; daring to linger, before finally Israfel raised his head to wink lazily at the gryphon.

He meant to sit, Israfel did, but the world went askew when he leaned back and he came terrifyingly close to plunging backwards over the marble countertop's precipice.

With a rather unbecoming shriek, he fought to regain his footing, looping the slim tipmost flesh of his tail 'round Svara's slender wrist in a desperate, albeit admittably clumsy ply for insurance against any further such misfortune. "Damned drink," he spat irritably, unwittingly betraying the reason for his uncharacteristic disorientation.