Herbalists' Cache hold my cup

ha! expression of joy at her blasphemous words. his chin, scruffy with wild tufts, juts upwards; a display of pride. it is his shield, it is his sword. he clings to it even now, as he squares his shoulders and walks a few paces away. only to turn once more.

he lingers.

his weight shifts, the thick fur along his spine bristles. she is right. because he is insulted, and he does not know why. because sun eater is not a man he loathes—no, that would be simple. he is tangled in things far more complicated, far more wretched. he does not like how morwenna bends, does not like how she kneels, does not like that she has bound herself to this life of submission, even if she claims it is her choice. and yet, she tells him it is not all as it seems.

he should believe her.

his lip curls and he huffs, blowing smoke from nostrils wringed by wet, his jaw flippant as he stirs to fire off another round of ignorance. but he does not, instead facing her with a stiff lip, turning cheek to her insistence that he come to know her husband. why do you want this? he asks, bitterly, searching her face. as if it may reveal what she toys at. what does it gain you?