Kildeer Rest if the stars start falling

Her own retort was sharp, finely pointed and deadly like the point of a dagger aimed right at him. Yet, this was the kind of banter that Tyulen lived for. A soft snort left the trash prince's black, leathery nostrils as his sapphire eyes raked over her once in an assessment before he responded with a sneer. “Ouch, I'm hurt by that,” but of course her opinion of him didn't matter to him nor would it cause him any sort of sleepless nights. “Hecate, goddess of witchcraft,” He surmised absently with a soft rise and fall of his shoulders in a casual shrug. “You don't look like much of a goddess.” What a dumb idea to name your children after gods and goddesses. Like it would make a difference in the hand life dealt them. Like Czar. Named for king and slaughtered for committing treason. This almost made Tyulen glad his mother had been the most creative being in the world's history and named him “seal” in her native tongue. He'd been pudgy into childhood until she left him to die when the decline of childhood fat transitioned into the too thin adult he was, aided by the poor food he'd been given by Siberia Copse. 

“Tyulen.” The trash prince offered her monotonously.