Altar of Twilight got a hardwired metal soul

fortunately for the moonspearian woman — though still unfortunate for him as her imperial-like growled question splices thru the quick of night and lingers in the air between them — tvarog did not notice her frolicking until last split second. his attention was elsewhere, taking in the sights of the rough-hewn terrain, lit by the glow of moonbeam. he took his mental mapping of stars and terrain more serious than he took many things in life, knowing that both were invaluable tools and abilities at his ever-reaching disposal.

tvarog, bastard enough to be more amused than he was threatened, turns jack'o'lantern gaze to her; studying her as if she is another landscape or constellation to map out. i'm not, tvarog clarifies to her accusation of being 'so close to claimed lands'. sure, he smells the mountain pack on the wind but there is plenty and more distance between them and him as they linger on the southern-eastern edge of the altar. he could see if he was hugging the no-man's-land between the two but he wasn't and thus, as far as he was concerned, wasn't 'too close' to anything.

he doesn't point out that their claim does not extend to this altar but it's implied heavily enough in his tone; silence, tvarog knows, often times speaks louder than words. if you insist on knowing, my name is tvarog. not that, he figured, it really mattered to her either way.

who're you and why're you so goddamned prickly? he returns the question, changing it to reflect his personal flavor.