Disapproval billows off the little Thief in near palpable waves of disgust. She doesn't shrink away from his closeness, but swells defiantly against it, her silver eyes hardening to sharp edged flints. 'Bad.' His companion whimpers in the face of this tiny tempest, but the stallion shrugs away his worry. 'Not rile.' The snake weakly begs, completely taken in by the display around them and genuinely frightened by the critical eyes suddenly staring him down, but his bonded is heedless.

A lazy grin spreads across his grizzled features as the mares first irritated comment sparks across the miniscule space between them. He opens his mouth to make some off color remark in line with his off color appearance and personality, but she's already moving to circle him, her steps heavy and probably meant to be vaguely threatening, though he has trouble taking her diminutive size seriously and feels nothing but disappointment when she finally does speak again.

At first his so called fortune is so generalized that he actually frowns at the transparency of it. He's well aware that the ivory coated mare is simply a Thief of the Basin performing a role for the festival and no true diviner, but he'd expected much more than a lifeless good choices, bad choices warning that could easily be slapped across any old bag of bones that wondered in. The corners of his mouth turn down in disenchantment and his eyes roam away from the figure before him, dismissive and bored. It's not until the final segment of her reading that his interest is drawn back.

More than one soul at stake in his actions? He glances up as best as he can, ears turning toward his right horn and the young python coiled tense and silent around its base. It's okay, he silently consoles the snake, only now aware of the nauseating fear in his companions gut. She's only pretending, Strom, it's not real. He tries to soothe, but the snake is shaken and unconvinced. He has never seen such things and to his young mind the circle of fire and smoke and grave, booming voices is more than enough to put his untested nerves on edge. The stallions expression crumples, ears pinning and mouth twisting into an angry snarl.

He arches his thin neck high above the mare, posturing just as arrogantly with his threadbare, lanky body as she manages to with her childlike pony one, neither one truly an imposing sight to the other, but determined to make an impression. He doesn't know what foreign language she spits at him with or what the unfamiliar syllables mean, but he's sure enough of it's emotion to be offended.

"Ihre worte erschrecken mich nicht." The words spill out of his mouth, low and guttural. He knows he shouldn't, knows that he's avoided using the language of his homeland for a reason, but the malice behind them and the desire to not only show up the false prophet but to elevate his strength in the eyes of his companion drives him on. "Schlampe." He adds, turning with a wild flick of his tail, the greasy, tangled tuft at its end aimed to rake across her face as he departs for more interesting attractions.



"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'
OOC // He's speaking german. "Your words don't frighten me, bitch." @Aisling