Hushed Willows Mythic

His grey face changed; the stone slate suddenly becoming an ominous storm as she explained. He had smoothed it out of his expression by the time she had finished, but Arkham was not entirely free of the true rage he felt as he thought about the circumstances himself. His head continued to shift in stiff scans of their surroundings, and he knew he wouldn't be rid of the feeling without the sacrifice of blood. His teeth ached like they were coated with tinfoil, and he knew the ache well, remembering it unhappily.

She asked him of the Dragons, and though he still refused to look at her, he was quick enough to answer. "High esteem, of course," he answered pompously; because who did not hold Warbone in high esteem, regardless of whether they liked him or not. "But an enemy, perhaps too. A traitor, may be more like, but if they were hunting me, then I suppose I would have been found already. Unwelcome, I think would be the preferred term here." He sighed. Talking was easing him out of his vengeful mood, or perhaps it was the round-bellied Octavia that was most sobering to the craving beast. But he also knew himself, and he knew he wouldn't feel settled with it unless he asked her.

He moved slowly, angling his head so that he was looking directly onto the presented side of her face. He searched the hollows and the patterns there, and then he met her eye. "Can I kill him?" Softly.