"I think. . ." Zhi ground out against the desire to start kicking his shins until dawn (and maybe even past dawn), "ye said that last time. An' like last time, ye abandoned me t'the squall!"
He was crazy. Madder'n a cockered, artless . . . artless . . . her repertoire of foul words failed her. No, there wasn't a word strong enough to capture the insanity that was Verad Bellveil. And she, starting to rise on tip-toes and cursing the differences in their height, had lifted one hand with forefinger extended. She was sweaty. Filthy. Smelly. Part of that was due to the fish slime that coated her top down, random scales and bits of fish skin sticking to hair, skin and clothing. Remarkable that she hadn't attracted more flies, really.
"Do ye -- d'ye know what a barrel full o'rottin' fish smells like at th'end o'the day?"
He should, since a small remnant of it clung to her. And thus, let us take a moment to appreciate the foulness of rotting fish warmed by the sun all day long. Now, let us imagine the smell magnified and borne by an individual whose sense of smell only intensifies when she breathes through her mouth. One who, we must presume, did not appreciate the smell of dead, rotting fish despite the similarities she shared with those of feline persuasion. Thus, we come upon her inability to modulate her voice to something below the volume of harpy shriek.
"Do -- ye?" Her stiffened finger stabbed twice towards the lower end of his sternum in time with her words.
Whilst in the main street, her smell had been mercifully dampened by the passing breeze and the freely circulating air. In the side street, however, whilst toe to toe with the elezen man, it would be quite more pronounced.
He was crazy. Madder'n a cockered, artless . . . artless . . . her repertoire of foul words failed her. No, there wasn't a word strong enough to capture the insanity that was Verad Bellveil. And she, starting to rise on tip-toes and cursing the differences in their height, had lifted one hand with forefinger extended. She was sweaty. Filthy. Smelly. Part of that was due to the fish slime that coated her top down, random scales and bits of fish skin sticking to hair, skin and clothing. Remarkable that she hadn't attracted more flies, really.
"Do ye -- d'ye know what a barrel full o'rottin' fish smells like at th'end o'the day?"
He should, since a small remnant of it clung to her. And thus, let us take a moment to appreciate the foulness of rotting fish warmed by the sun all day long. Now, let us imagine the smell magnified and borne by an individual whose sense of smell only intensifies when she breathes through her mouth. One who, we must presume, did not appreciate the smell of dead, rotting fish despite the similarities she shared with those of feline persuasion. Thus, we come upon her inability to modulate her voice to something below the volume of harpy shriek.
"Do -- ye?" Her stiffened finger stabbed twice towards the lower end of his sternum in time with her words.
Whilst in the main street, her smell had been mercifully dampened by the passing breeze and the freely circulating air. In the side street, however, whilst toe to toe with the elezen man, it would be quite more pronounced.
