Fern hears a soft discussion taking place - a trade of words at the leisurely pace of a high-tea or a shared meditation - from the chamber closest to the enclosure.  The other doors betray no noise.<br/><br/>Miaren is in a different kind of silence; a noisier one.  The only sounds are that of the fluttering stir of the griffon's wings and the steamy rumble that bubbles up from the engine of his chest.  Inside her though, loud urges are beginning to raise their voices.<br/><br/>In answer to her stare, the griffon's glare refines.  It is not harder - it even has a peculiar softness to it - but it edges.  It digs into something it sees in her.<br/><br/>And steadily, he raises a paw to stroke its terrific weight over her back.  Caressing her with the tonnage of his foreleg, the griffon coaxes her with thrilling weight to slide down, to dip to her knees, to lean forward.  The press is not hasty, but it is insistent.  It broaches no resistance.  It merely strokes her to conduct her closer to the anxious flexing of his glistening penis - to where the flesh heaves, its aromas thunderous as they slide their richness and sour down her nose, tongue, throat.