Around him, the air shimmers, and his teeth bare in what might be a smile, or might be a scowl. Never once, however, does his gaze break away from the golden man, even as snow melts to steam and a layer of sweat drenches his hide. “Cute party trick,” The words break on a laugh, harsh and ugly, marred by the memories of a time when the man had once held such power in his hands, had once summoned fire and heat as easily as breathing. He is still not convinced this man is a God, thinks perhaps that it is a mortal, and yet the expression on his face practically dares Solis -- make me a believer, it taunts, all harsh lines in the wake of the scowl that overtakes his features even with mention of a hunt. And yet, he does not leave. |
