Honeyed Pasture one false prayer wielding blasphemy

Like flint and steel, ire sparked in the glowlight of her gaze. It was to his delight as much as it was his annoyance, a poor yin and yang that would spiral into other events if he had it his way. She spouted more words at him and again it was the same thing; he recognized some of them, but in essence outside of her tone the overall gist was lost on him.

If he had been of lesser fortitude, he could have fled. The option was still there naturally, but Solpallur was not the sort to flee over much of anything. His confidence was tantamount to his size and skill; it added to how irritating he could be, how formidable when he arose to a challenge. And she presented one right then and there when deference did not come, when she did not push away and storm off to sulk somewhere else. Whether she took her part in the kill or not did not matter to him—it would not go to waste.

In a fit, he snapped at her with a snarl.

Enough warnings had been given and the resolute click of his teeth close to her face would spell it out—go away.