Wheeling Gull Isle shāzhōu de kāifàng

his dewclaw had begun to sting a bit, but asmodeus paid it no mind. a bit of cold would not hurt his body. slowly he swung his gaze back to his trove, then to where ying had caught nothing. "i win the prize of not having my throat cut," the man observed dryly. 

he pushed one of the round things toward her; it slid through the soaked grains of sand. "now you win," he beamed into her frustrated expression. "what will your prize be?"