Lion Head Mesa thirty-seventh

It was certainly a dangerous game—Akashingo, he knew, was not a place he wished to coax from their redstone walls and their mountain. He had a daughter to protect—also, a litter of cubs.

Silvertongue.

Still, a smirk played upon his lips as Senmut downed two berries—and Wren, beside him, piped up in yet another helpful statement. Perhaps it was the effects of the berries, but he found his jaws leaning down, preening at her again, a whispered: “Very astute, little swan,” he rumbled, though they weren’t words meant only for her, should the other be listening. He simply couldn’t help himself from teasing at her—cloying.

“As far as Lilitu might have remembered or knew, she was and is a wide-eyed peasant girl,” he noted to the man, his muzzle tilting back, pale eyes sharp upon him as he indulged another berry. “So I’ll be bold and ask… Are the politics of Akashingo something I should feel the need to protect my daughter from? Who is Charles?” And did the man need a lesson in how to better treat another being?

Whether the words were a slight or not, Akavir couldn’t be bothered to rise to the bait of it—his ego was not so easily bruised. But he did always enjoy a verbal spar or two, and could appreciate the other man initiating a blow.