Sawtooth Spire drittgeborener

Astraeus when Mahler growls with well-intent: 

Yeah, no. He'd gratefully changed his mind when the fetid ordor of fish paraded in his nostrils. Brows furrowing at the gargoyle's low growl, he inched closer. The pupils had reclined to its forehead. Definitely not welcoming. Should he gouge them out? His small lips flitting, he bit into the eye. Wrong place. Spitting with vigor, he stepped a ways away from the fish and snorted with contempt.