Ankyra Sound dominion over all

Lusca pitched back her eyes, imploring Lord, take me now as his brain buffered and struggled at first to parse her words. Sometime later, however, it did finally manage to locate the /Vlad/Utilities/sarcasm_detect.exe folder, at which point she intoned loudly: "Jassssss vezzy gute!" In her mind, she was patting him on the head. Outwardly, she nodded in a manner that suggested he was the proud owner of one, maybe three, braincells.

As he barged into her personal bubble, steely eyes battened down on her, Lusca took turns squinting up the oppressive, swarthy barrel of his snout, and down upon the grimy state of his phalanges with a rankled expression, ears slicking back with rooted disapproval. Nah. Chick had inflexible strictures regarding who was permitted to enter her cushy sphere of emotional unavailability, and this guy did not make the list––so she was definitely not about to abide this heinous moving violation (besides, it would be a ginormous miscarriage of justice if she let it slide. Maybe if he wiggled his cleavage at her?). 

The inkblot stared at his toes a second or more longer before slowly drawing a leg from beneath her chest, daintily using the tippy-tops of her claws to hopefully scooch his foot away. Leaning away from him, she re-situated herself, wiggling back into a curled ball (to conserve energy for when she was running for her pitiful life in three to five minutes, as a rough estimate), darkly clouded all up in his face.

Being that Vlad hovered over her like a sanctimommy hovers over her gluten-free forcefed, anemic spawn, if he so deigned to consume her, she stood little to no chance of making good her escape. And when Lusca felt threatened, mouthing off––however unwise in her circumstances––functioned on the same reflex as elbows when one is being tickled within an inch of their life. Caiaphas already milked every last ounce of fear from her bones––although there was some semblance of it pulsing faintly in her chest, she was mostly anesthetized. 

"I wouldn't, Vlad." This is where you slam a shot glass of whiskey sour and ensue with fightin' words. Also where your friend holds you by the collar of your shirt so you don't get immediately laid out. Unfortunately, as it were, Lusca had no such friend. Or any friends, in fact. Trash talk to your heart's content, girlfriend. R.I.P. Nobody will miss you. 

"I've been gradually building up a tolerance to poisonous newts. So, like, most of my blood is toxic." She informed him blandly, eyes half-lidded. Lying, obviously. The frontline personnel of all her defense mechanisms. "If you do, though, may I suggest you start at my head? I think the reservoir of poison is concentrated near my ass." She paused, looked him up and down, and tilted her muzzle away dismissively. "In your case, also known as the face."