Snake-oil salesman

“Well aren’t you just coldhearted.” She exclaimed pointedly, impressed at the amount of loathing Fang freely admitted about their leader now. She’d had her suspicions in the past, but to have him passionately proving them now right in front of her was something else entirely. She didn’t share the shame drive; really hers was one of apathy. She’d stay with the mountain for however long it suited it her, and like Fang if things didn’t work out, Kipling would have no qualms about finding greener pastures. Still, it was strange how familiar faces seemed to be drifting from the mountain in such a short amount of time. Had she been a little more humble, perhaps in an alternate universe she might have tried to cajole the hybrid to reconsider—if only for the familiarity of his company.

Through her eyes didn’t widen, her smirk did and she tilted her head in response, “Why? Can’t you tell? I’m ecstatic.” She answered coyly, “About you finding a place… away from here.” And while that may have been mostly true a few moment’s before, it wasn’t quite genuine now. She’d been (thought she denied it) frightened at first that he’d returned for a piece of her hide, but to have settled now between them, there was a wisp—however small it was—that Kipling would pine for his amusement. “But honestly don’t act so sentimental, obviously you know where to find me when you miss me.”