His incredibly hypocritical question, paired with his step, the feeling of his breath on her skin, ignites her. Mazikeen explodes with a feral cry and a flash of feathers. As a large, pale harpy eagle she rises from her spot. They are close enough that her large wings could hit him in the heartbeat where she's almost floating there, though in a move she will undoubtedly regret she keeps her talons curled to her body. She angles to the side and past him and then - against all logic - she does not leave. Not yet.
She lands behind him so he would need to turn right around to look at her. She shifts back into herself but keeps the wings, large and striped with white and black as they remain half-folded at her side. Feathers quite literally ruffled.
Those wings beat the air at her side, as though she needed something else to grab his attention. Their size fills up the space around the pair of them. Closes them off from the world.
And now she steps towards him.
Crowding him.
Pushing back.
The shift had cleared her head somewhat. All that anger is still churning within her but she is the eye in the centre of the flames. There’s something colder in her eyes as they re-focus on him. There’s still a bite to her words (how could there not be?) but with ice rather than fire now. “Well, it’s no wonder no one sticks around for a second conversation. Feels good, does it, knowing you’re making me uncomfortable? Anything to pretend you're in control, right?” She gets as close as she can without touching him and then whispers into the space between them. She doesn’t need volume to get this point across. “You’re not a challenge, Firion.” His name falls from her lips like a curse. “You’re just an asshole.”
