The golden eyes flare a little brighter, but there's something wry and amused in the dragon's basso profundo voice when he answers, "A nasty fellow with the very inappropriate name of Morning Star."

Another thoughtfully bellyscratch, and Oolong twists again to settle flat on the ground, long jaw resting against the earth, warm puff of breath washing over Horst. He is most absolutely amenable to lengthy, ambling conversations; they are his specialty.

"Quid pro quo, my undead friend: who has earned your ire?"