There were several points throughout Bellveil's words that Zhi opened her mouth, presumably to start up haranguing him again, but he gave her no quarter. It was during one of these -- the one where he'd plucked a bit of slime from her -- that she opened her mouth. The slime hit the side of her nose and slid down, hung precariously, and dribbled on in. She froze for a moment as her senses went about registering what had just happened -- smell, to taste, to the feel of fish slime entering her mouth -- and then she was spitting all over Bellveil's midsection. As if that wasn't enough, she hawked up a wad of something perhaps as disgusting, and spat that down between them. There was a high probability the bit of mucus landed on his left boot.
"Speech!" She got out, one hand lashing out and landing on the wall beside his waist. It was an intimidating sort of gesture, the kind that only really worked well if you were a good three or more inches taller than the other person. But, well, you have to give her some points for putting in good effort. Chin up, as they say.
"Yer quibblin' over how ruttin' rotten th'damn barrel was, an' y'have th'gall t'come snivelin' about yer speech?" Her voice climbed several octaves. "Ye daft? It was yer thrice-cursed speech what set th'clients t'riotin'! I sure as feck didn't upend the fish over me own head, did I? An' after I got th'ruttin' barrel off me head, where was me partner? Well?"
She gestured with her free hand. Slime flew sideways with the movement to mix in with the other unnameable substances on the ground.
It was possible that the question was rhetorical -- a common trap employed by many a fine woman -- but she glared up at Bellveil as if she expected an answer nonetheless.
"Speech!" She got out, one hand lashing out and landing on the wall beside his waist. It was an intimidating sort of gesture, the kind that only really worked well if you were a good three or more inches taller than the other person. But, well, you have to give her some points for putting in good effort. Chin up, as they say.
"Yer quibblin' over how ruttin' rotten th'damn barrel was, an' y'have th'gall t'come snivelin' about yer speech?" Her voice climbed several octaves. "Ye daft? It was yer thrice-cursed speech what set th'clients t'riotin'! I sure as feck didn't upend the fish over me own head, did I? An' after I got th'ruttin' barrel off me head, where was me partner? Well?"
She gestured with her free hand. Slime flew sideways with the movement to mix in with the other unnameable substances on the ground.
It was possible that the question was rhetorical -- a common trap employed by many a fine woman -- but she glared up at Bellveil as if she expected an answer nonetheless.
