[ A shame that she has once more the privilege of solid ground beneath her, but holding her aloft was proving more cumbersome than helpful. Her fumbling feet make hard contact with his legs, and he is reminded of wrestling hounds when he was a boy, proving his strength against thrashing, energetic beasts, covered in mud and growling with laughter. They are, here, without the thrill of splashing mud, and her laughter has been thus far a madness sprinkled over his own breathless growls. She is not a hound, cannot be commanded back to a kennel once this is done (well, the kennel is now implied for the both of them), and he is not under the impression that she will have learned anything once she is released.
At the very least, there is the satisfaction of feeling her breath thinning, her words grappling for purchase much like her feet. If he can feel his pulse thick and worried at the base of his skull, surely she is swimming in an encroaching dark, too. He manages another wisp of laughter; he will be coughing up laughter alongside bone and blood when his final hour comes. ]
You don't know what I have to lose, mule girl. [ She knew nothing of him at all, and clearly failed to grasp the notion that it was the principle of the thing: he would not be the one to surrender. He would not have his dignity and his honor slighted by being the one to first decide that he could not go on, that he must give in. Let her do her worst, choke the last breath out of him and leave him lying in defeat on the cold floor, but he'll be damned if he chooses the luxury of breathing over victory.
The bunched muscle of his arms tightens at the note of that wheeze that leaves her, testing once more how far she will let this farce go on. Because this is her own doing. ]
Take your chances, then. You've got nothing to lose. Wit and strength haven't saved you, let trust do the trick. [ He is banking, more and more stubbornly, on the fact that he cannot be put into this position himself: in this contest, he will always have the fallback victory of overpowering strength. ]
no subject
At the very least, there is the satisfaction of feeling her breath thinning, her words grappling for purchase much like her feet. If he can feel his pulse thick and worried at the base of his skull, surely she is swimming in an encroaching dark, too. He manages another wisp of laughter; he will be coughing up laughter alongside bone and blood when his final hour comes. ]
You don't know what I have to lose, mule girl. [ She knew nothing of him at all, and clearly failed to grasp the notion that it was the principle of the thing: he would not be the one to surrender. He would not have his dignity and his honor slighted by being the one to first decide that he could not go on, that he must give in. Let her do her worst, choke the last breath out of him and leave him lying in defeat on the cold floor, but he'll be damned if he chooses the luxury of breathing over victory.
The bunched muscle of his arms tightens at the note of that wheeze that leaves her, testing once more how far she will let this farce go on. Because this is her own doing. ]
Take your chances, then. You've got nothing to lose. Wit and strength haven't saved you, let trust do the trick. [ He is banking, more and more stubbornly, on the fact that he cannot be put into this position himself: in this contest, he will always have the fallback victory of overpowering strength. ]