Sequoia Coast but life is long my love is gone away

bartok demonstrated his best scowl (which, considering resting bitchy face syndrome, barely scraped by as making any difference) to express his blatant animus towards her inconsideration, ruffling his feathers and sulking for all of the ten seconds of buffer time it took for caiaphas to pick up her oopsie daisy.

her stint of self-deprecation neglected, bartok tilted his head towards her and looked up her wan snout with a cocked and leery eye as she filled in the details of her conspiracy. there was truth in her suspicion – the structure of the story-line was just a shoestring in the grand scheme of his interest. the raven, like most, was an entirely self-serving little pisshead, and his commitment to the plot only went to the extent of the relevance of emotional disintegration.

though he was touched by imperceptible intrigue to learn (in this case assume) that some chap had managed to, uh, scrutinize that impossible curve long enough for a tax refund. a mislaid puppy, of all things to throw the siren queen into an enormous tantrum. unnerving, but also admirable. what an achievement. where was the body buried, he wondered?

bartok parted his bill and spiritedly whooped, trotting uncomfortably into her personal space and bore into the glim of her eyes. "they steal puppy, we steal life! ha ha ha hahaha!" he cackled, and then straightened up. "bartok joke. no death. maim, maybe." he gave a thoughtful, and affirmative, nod.