[ It stings her, that much he can see, but she surrenders no other reward. No tears, no fury, no retreat or lunge. Only a grimace, which he assumes is meant to reveal nothing, as is the way of stubborn women. Fearful women, too, but he does not point this out again. She has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and only a losing fight to come to grips with, should she choose. She does not, however, seem to be on the point of choosing that breed of madness.

The roughspun of his sorry excuse for a tunic scrapes now against her arms, and still she doesn't budge, so the next decision comes without thought. He will take another step and simply knock her to the ground, or she will step aside. He holds himself where he stands for a moment longer, giving the smirk on his face full rein. She has to tilt her head to even look at him, and if she continues to be mulish, she will have to look up at him from the ground.

He does, then, take that final step closer. ]

Go hide yourself in some corner, then, if you're bored. [ Or curl up on the floor, or wail through the bars; he didn't particularly care which, so long as she essentially removes herself from his experience of this hell. She is right, there is little sport to be had in flushing quail from one barrel to another, but what else is there? He has never known how to leave prey uncaught. ]

Perhaps you should be grateful that a cricked neck is all you've got to worry about. Thank your gods for the blessing of boredom.