I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
He is not dense enough to miss that he has offended her—and if he was less arrogant, he may have apologized. As it is though, he simply takes note of it and moves on. The storm doesn’t apologize for the damage that it wields and he does not think that he needs to either. He simply stands still, like a giant oak, unyielding and still, not disturbed the flash of her silver eyes or the sharpness of her tongue.
She snaps at him and his tail flicks, hitting massive haunches that still feel so small to him.
“There is always a lesson to be taught,” he responds with an equal sharpness, not stopping to consider that perhaps the vitriol he has met in this world is of his own making. If he is constantly met with a cold shoulder, or mockery, or steel, would it not stand to reason that he is the common denominator?
But he doesn’t consider it.
“If you don’t think there are lessons to be learned, even in this mad land, then you have never learned one,” his eyes sharpen and he jerks his chin haughtily, expecting at least in part to still be considered a god among them, even in this mortal form. She gives him some information though, and for that he softens a little, his expression not quite so cold and unforgiving on the edges of it.
“Tell me more of this Mountain.”
An order more than a request.
MORROWIND
