I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
He doesn’t enjoy the petulance, but neither does he tire of it. The storm would soon rather tire of the tree that it rips from the ground. Instead, he just feels the whiplash of her tongue like blunted blows against his chest, barely registering the sharpness in her eyes and the vitriol seeping from her very mouth. He angles his head to consider her, trying to understand what she thinks is so foolish of looking for lessons.
Not resigned, but unwilling to engage much further, he shrugs.
“If you don’t look for lessons then perhaps it is a waste of my time to talk with you.”
What fool doesn’t look for lessons?
It baffles him and he shakes his massive head, but there is something that he wants enough from her that he doesn’t leave just yet. His ragged hooves remain firmly planted in the ground, the mud creeping up around them. “We have mountains like that back home,” he says, the humor eluding him. His mouth furrows in the corner, pulling into a frown. “I hardly see why it’s something to tell me about.”
But she continues and he grows quiet.
Fae.
That must be what he’s looking for then.
“I do not paying the price,” this is said with steel underneath as he straightens his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height—a behemoth in this form and yet still so diminished from his true nature.
MORROWIND
