[ She's fully capable of catching and righting herself, so he leaves her to do so, giving his attention instead to his own careful rise. Bruised he will be, that is certain - where her thrice-damned foot caught him in the knee, but that can be hidden easily enough. He gives his rough tunic a cursory dusting, giving the girl a glance before prowling back toward the bars. She does not look terribly worse for wear. Her breathing is far from musical and her hair is far from silk, and her preferred answer would seem to be silence.

No guards appear to be scurrying out of the darkness, to his disappointment. Maybe he should've made her scream, yelp out in some serviceable pain so someone would take note. No, she likely would have denied him that, and she might be right - why should they be foolish enough to open the door? Their captors might well be armed with some sort of device to reach through the bars and tame unruly prisoners. A useless fight was still better than no fight at all, he must console himself.

He heaves a sigh, freshly restless, not even having had the pleasure of tasting blood. And she's not even clever enough to lapse into her silence; she sees fit to flaunt her haughtiness as if she has any right to it, and he turns to face her, a predatory glint in his eye. ]

You didn't want the horse, if I might remind you. Although for all your fighting's worth, an ass would've been a more judicious trade. Be certain that I would never suffer the poor beast to share a cell with you.