Honeyed Pasture one false prayer wielding blasphemy

Not following, that was boring. Ordering him around, however, was not the wisest thing she could have done. His nostrils flared with forced air expelled, his lips curling ever so slightly to break what he considered to be his calm. She had questions, naturally, because all of them had questions. Who are you, what are you saying, what do you want—he had heard them so many times over so long, and had grown to detest it. All any of them wanted was conversation and he reached the point more and more where he thought that they had forgotten what it was to live and revere, to simply work as one than all the individualistic manners they carried.

“Mine,” he answered—the language was his. “Byrjað.” He ordered her right back, though he doubted the tone would work. Solpallur thought it would spark her ire more, coaxing that gentle fire into a raging tempest to whirlwind right back into the depths of his gaze. They could warn one another all they wanted, but the real question was who would be the first to break. Would she run as the coyote did? Or perhaps she would stalk away when she had enough, stomping off as women were wont to do when he would not bend to their will.

Persistence would do her no good.