Hushed Willows witcher

"i know a few things," he admitted nonchalantly - ambiguously - then let his continued silence punctuate the extent of his exposition. he was far too busy scrutinizing her with intently his dull, hawkish gaze, trying to find fault or ugliness, and failing woefully to disassociate the personal appearance of this stranger with the memories she elicited within him. it was her voice that would bring the iron liege from his moon-bound reverie each time, and as she confessed her suspicions to the malingering shade, he was able to maintain his typical aloofness when probed for a response.

he was quiet for a long moment, his gaze set to that eternal flicker of calculation he owned, and then he sighed. "is that all there is here?" the smokehound cocked his head slightly, and flashed her the devil's look - an expression impassive and yet prying. teasing the bird's pretty feathers, to see what she would do.