Duskfire Glacier Arvīge

“A woman. Ivory. Pale eyes. Flaunting Darukaal’s scent,” lips curl, but Ayovi’s demeanor is quiet. She watches Blackfell. He makes a play of familiarity, and in the same breath reviles a constitution which would grant him more power than a pampered lap-dog.
“You warn me?” She hisses, another long stride towards Faust where the blue of her query is thrust against his verdancy.  Is she the only one here to question him?
She should not; she knows this. She is lucky thus far to plant feet here unmarred. And still she cannot quell the voice which mocks such his question. “You should know this. Keep charge of your lackeys, Baskaan.”
“Or I will.”