“Even a soldier in the throes of battle would still offer her officer a salute,” comes frosted delivery, the chill of December air on his breath parting from his lungs and draining the surrounding temperature beyond absolute zero. A haunting gaze matches the warrior’s, his gaunt visage carved like marble by winter’s chill and its razor winds. His stare is critical, giving only minor revelation of the storm that stirs behind those eyes—one of ice water and cold steel (might of a hoplite platoon, his blood is ancient like sparta’s old glory—he is one of another century, another era, biblical and medieval and of the old world) that waits to unleash upon those who challenge his person, his might.
On his final syllable uttered, his eyes narrow further, lashes casting over his heterochromatic irises—and further he speaks, voice running deep with the blood of the slain. "What sin have these heretics committed, that they have earned the wrath of this modern Athena who stands before me?”
"Apologies for my ignorance, but how shall I salute? I have heard the term, but I have never witnessed the action," she returns in a level manner, line of sight running behind the taller's shoulder. His tone meets her ears, bouncing off and only being recorded as a statement and nothing more.
Her own lashes caress the surface of her cheeks, remaining shut as she fell into slight thought on her future actions. Her finger's clearly twitched, her slight paranoia of being struck down without a chance ebbing its way towards her center. Once the Emperor's poison leaked, the swordswoman's lashes drew upwards, her crimson gaze casting back onto Tanaka. "Athena may be offended by those words. Comparing a goddess of wisdom and battle strategy to something with a mindless purpose is quite abhorrent."
