Ravensblood Forest all gods who receive homage are cruel

she corrects him bluntly, stating that she only watches those with a shred of intelligence. a soft snort leaves wintersbane's black, leathery nostrils, supposing that he should take her word as a compliment. still, it struck him as satirical at the implication that she doesn't think many have a shred of intelligence. maybe you are wrong, the dark brother supplies her tease with a lofty rise and fall of his broad shoulders. how do you judge one's intelligence by how they look? he inquires of her with an arrogant flick of an ear.

her question is as a blunt as the first words she spoke to him and though he admires her balls, he also finds her demand to be irritating and it projects itself in the set of his shoulders and the satirizing hum that sounds deep in his throat. the laugh that escapes him as patronizing as the hum that proceeds that. now i'm wounded, the tundrian draws. i don't give information like that for free, especially when i don't see how useful giving that information to you is for either of us. wintersbane asserts