[ It comes as no surprise that she has no appreciation for the art of appearing armed even when there is no blade to hand. She seems rather unappreciative of a great many of life's finer points, as her laughter proves, disdainful though it may be. It's a note he's accustomed to in his dealings with just about anyone. Disdain at the forefront, disdain behind, and disdain throughout. Easier still for half-witted children, but he has not lost his own prevailing sense of amusement, and it is written as a smirk across his face for that color that rises in her cheeks. It doesn't matter whether it's the heat of embarrassment of anger; it's fire, and fire ruins.

She is, he's sure, making a tally of every misery she's encountered in her paltry life, and he keeps bright, cutting eyes on her face, daring her to go ahead and list them all. Enumerate the wrongs perpetrated against her by an unfeeling universe, by cruel and unjust gods, by her own failings and general inadequacies. Relive the stab of each one, weigh it for pain, and make from her memories the champion of her misery. He is not deterred, certain as he is that he can recount terrors darker than any she has known.

But she doesn't, she only gives him that baleful glare, and he takes another crowding step, ready to relish any ground yielded. The same satisfaction of corralling a dog or a horse, finding in retreating steps the evidence of his strength. ]

You'd have me decrying all my losses, would you? Only a fool bares all his steel before the fight has begun. What will you do, beseech them to free you sooner because you've so woefully lost your lover, because you weep for your child, because your life is wasting away before your eyes? It sounds to me like you've already halfway surrendered. They won't have to take anything from you, you're so willing to give it.