[ Even from his crouch, Asura boasts the advantage of height over Andersen— who, despite their child's form, is no true child at all. Asura had suspected it, at first, when he'd locked his gaze with Andersen's own, seeing something fathomless there which belied the other Mirrorbound's apparent youth. Then, when Andersen s p o k e, well... (truth be told, it'd been difficult not to imagine Andersen styled as some hobgoblin baron, pint-sized and industrious with the deeply resonant voice of a seasoned connoisseur, one particular to Hedgespun goods) all doubts were banished from mind.
Andersen, he's something else, and that's why Asura is frank with him: ]
I'm no butcher. [ Hard to tell, who boasts the deeper baritone between Andersen and Asura himself— but when the King speaks (enunciating the word butcher with bone-rattling rancor), his voice resonates like a low clap of thunder from a Summer storm. He is a hunter, yes, by virtue of his crown and Court (it is the banner of the Iron Spear, after all, which rallies all allies of the four Great Courts to battle, signaling the pursuit of the Freehold's adversaries), but he will never be a butcher. ] Back home, my people and I were seen as little more than crops of exotic reagents at the ready for harvest. Our lives to be reaped for the sole purpose of furthering the spellcraft of irreverent human mages.
[ Witches. Mages. There is no difference. What's more, it remains the most profound of ironies, that Asura (disdainful of human magic, professed enemy of all mages belonging to the nine mystric Traditions) has been relegated to the role of a Witch by the world of Talam. ]
This beast here? It gave us a magnificent fight, [ as Andersen himself can attest to, his forehead shining with a sheen of sweat borne of battle and the sultry, Summertime heat of the Wilde ] and I'm not about to repay that by delivering its remains into the hands of Witches. That's too damn ignoble for my liking.
no subject
Andersen, he's something else, and that's why Asura is frank with him: ]
I'm no butcher. [ Hard to tell, who boasts the deeper baritone between Andersen and Asura himself— but when the King speaks (enunciating the word butcher with bone-rattling rancor), his voice resonates like a low clap of thunder from a Summer storm. He is a hunter, yes, by virtue of his crown and Court (it is the banner of the Iron Spear, after all, which rallies all allies of the four Great Courts to battle, signaling the pursuit of the Freehold's adversaries), but he will never be a butcher. ] Back home, my people and I were seen as little more than crops of exotic reagents at the ready for harvest. Our lives to be reaped for the sole purpose of furthering the spellcraft of irreverent human mages.
[ Witches. Mages. There is no difference. What's more, it remains the most profound of ironies, that Asura (disdainful of human magic, professed enemy of all mages belonging to the nine mystric Traditions) has been relegated to the role of a Witch by the world of Talam. ]
This beast here? It gave us a magnificent fight, [ as Andersen himself can attest to, his forehead shining with a sheen of sweat borne of battle and the sultry, Summertime heat of the Wilde ] and I'm not about to repay that by delivering its remains into the hands of Witches. That's too damn ignoble for my liking.
[ Leaves a sour taste in the mouth, to boot. ]