It'll take more than a brush and a ribbon to get you sorted, I think.

[ He grimaces at the thought of her combing her hair sleek and shining, anyway - more likely that she'd be at home with hay and burs tangled in, and something insolent dancing on her tongue. Not that her hair was going to signify anything useful to them, much as each and every observation proves futile. Make some play at harming her? There was no guarantee that the door would open. Have her present herself as a hostage of some nobility? Even less likely.

There is a sliver of steel in her voice, and in the absence of all else, he is pleased to have that. Pain and frustration will always be preferable to dull silence, to sea-vast emptiness. He sits up, the better to disdainfully regard her. What could she know of hell? ]

So much money you're laying about when you seem to have precisely none to speak of. [ A bright smirk attends this quip before he continues - ] We aren't branded the same, make no mistake. This is some fool's folly, for which he will hopefully lose both hands. And whatever glorious notions you have of hell, I'd advise you to put them aside. You'll find that the gods are rather unimaginative, compared to the miseries we make for ourselves.