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‘I’ve never seen such paranoia and exclusivity reach such great heights.’ Despite the flare of anger that surges through your heart just then, the only inclination that you had even heard her is the grinding of your teeth, your ears pinning to the top of your skull, and the tension that suddenly settles all over your body. If you were braver, more bold, you might have told her to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine and chased her out of here, marked her as the frigid bitch that she is and left her for someone else to deal with. But you are not, and so instead of paying any more attention to her sheer ignorance, you simply continue down the little path, your progress slowed by the amount of snow.
It is only then that a voice slices through the tension that she had created, your heart jumping in your chest before you turn to face the wolf. You fight to keep the groan down, the look on his face causing your spine (what spine?) to tremble. He insults her where you failed to, and although you do not jump immediately to her defense, (how could you?) you do not think that throwing insults back will make this situation any better. And so you simply stand, wanting to run one way or the other, anywhere but here, because you fear what this situation will bring. Even as he addresses you, you remain still, your gaze, which had been focused on him since he came, sharpening just the slightest fraction, adding a feigned danger to your otherwise serene look.
You do not care for the golden lord, do not care for his sharp tongue or childish temper; do not care for the way that he seems to slink like a weasel through everything that he does. There have been times that you had thought maybe you have the wrong impression of him, that you are blurring lines between someone else’s opinion and yours that should not be blurred. But he would have to prove it to you, show that he is not the wolf that you believe him to be. ‘You must be new.’
Instead of acknowledging yet another stab at the ocean-marked woman you sigh quietly to yourself, shifting on feet as to not let them stay still too long in the cold. “Thranduil, one of the Lords of the Basin,” Can’t you tell by the way he presents himself, with all the poise of a braindead log? "Under Deimos, and lastly, Hotaru, the Lady." Had you honestly emphasized that he is lesser than the the death-lord? Perhaps. That is up to his interpretation. “If we could be leaving, I was just showing her where she may rest; she’s had quite the journey.” You, of course, only know part of it – the part that she had given Rohan and you both a frosty shoulder, even after your sandstone man had taken separate ways. Where she came from before that you have no idea, and can only assume (read: hope) that a good rest will remove some of the frigid bitch aura that she has clinging to her.
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