The Wall Toome

He was barbaric! The flesh under her moonspun face goes pale, lips cleaving for a gasp as wooden splinters pierce the powder by her feet. Behind the fear rises anger, fierce and scorching and yet her body is stilled to a type of quiet she would not believe possible, suspending all but pulse and breath– like a doe listening for the draw of a hunter’s arrowhead.
She does look up then, staring daggers into the back of his head, a pant like a sneer raking the hollowed throat. An asheēr man might have chastised her, but this one had no right!
Under the roar of pain she does as told, finds her feet and drives her body into a trot, passing Faust with a warbling growl and eyes that refuse to acknowledge.
Ayovi wanted him to feel ugly for his violence.