Trust me, you are nothing but another weak animal minding the strongest whip
Dull eyes of mulled wine stared distantly at the stallion who seemed to be getting his feathers in a bunch. An ombre ear lazily flicked forward for a brief moment at the tangible feeling of anger and contempt that hung in the air, although no expression or reaction registered across his face. Tor wouldn't blame the other for his overflow of emotion.. but it hardly meant much to him. "How long ago did you leave, then?" he trailed off, the verbal punctuation of his words read more as a rhetoric question than something that actually needed an answer.
And while the Warden was not one to be considered soft, he did not expect a stranger to bow to him. Political formalities were beneath him. But nevertheless, he observed Alaric's body language: the tension that sprang in his muscles, like a coiled spring ready and tense, the indignation that flickered across his features at the mention of the Davke's desecration.
Ugh, and that smell.
The ear that had lazily flopped forward swung quickly back around, slipping into the mess of his mane to pin against the crowns of his horns. Had he killed a man, gutted him, and decided to wear his carcass as a trench coat? Because good Solis, that smell.
Nostrils scrunched up and a hot breath blew from them, but the rancid stench of rot and ash stayed, wedged in the crevices of his sinuses. Tor wasn't good at hiding his facial expressions, it seems. But even with his disgust and distraction, he did not miss Alaric's wandering eyes. It was not uncommon for others to stare, and he stopped letting it irritate him... but he didn't humor him with information that he had no place knowing. Instead, the tall beast just waited for the other to peer upwards and meet his gaze. 'My eyes are up here' briefly popped up in his head, and a subconscious chuckle rang through his mind.
But the rotten stallion's questions made him chuckle aloud, for Tor himself knew exactly what Alaric was plotting: revenge.
"He's been dead for some time," he mused, eyes wandering to gaze off in the direction of the Court itself. It stood proud on the horizon, but dusty and weathered with time. "His throat slit on the marble stone of his own bedchambers," a drawling exclamation that trailed off into nothing - as if a Sovereign bleeding out, choking and sputtering on his own blood, was nothing new.
A coy pause, eyes glanced back at the other: "....Killed by a Davke he tried to enslave, the parchments say."
He was sure that would soothe the raging sea that boiled beneath Alaric's skin.
And while the Warden was not one to be considered soft, he did not expect a stranger to bow to him. Political formalities were beneath him. But nevertheless, he observed Alaric's body language: the tension that sprang in his muscles, like a coiled spring ready and tense, the indignation that flickered across his features at the mention of the Davke's desecration.
Ugh, and that smell.
The ear that had lazily flopped forward swung quickly back around, slipping into the mess of his mane to pin against the crowns of his horns. Had he killed a man, gutted him, and decided to wear his carcass as a trench coat? Because good Solis, that smell.
Nostrils scrunched up and a hot breath blew from them, but the rancid stench of rot and ash stayed, wedged in the crevices of his sinuses. Tor wasn't good at hiding his facial expressions, it seems. But even with his disgust and distraction, he did not miss Alaric's wandering eyes. It was not uncommon for others to stare, and he stopped letting it irritate him... but he didn't humor him with information that he had no place knowing. Instead, the tall beast just waited for the other to peer upwards and meet his gaze. 'My eyes are up here' briefly popped up in his head, and a subconscious chuckle rang through his mind.
But the rotten stallion's questions made him chuckle aloud, for Tor himself knew exactly what Alaric was plotting: revenge.
"He's been dead for some time," he mused, eyes wandering to gaze off in the direction of the Court itself. It stood proud on the horizon, but dusty and weathered with time. "His throat slit on the marble stone of his own bedchambers," a drawling exclamation that trailed off into nothing - as if a Sovereign bleeding out, choking and sputtering on his own blood, was nothing new.
A coy pause, eyes glanced back at the other: "....Killed by a Davke he tried to enslave, the parchments say."
He was sure that would soothe the raging sea that boiled beneath Alaric's skin.
[ please tag @Torstein in all replies ]
I have three eyes
TWO TO LOOK ONE TO SEE
