Gale had meant it in jest; however, with both that cutting gaze and that dagger of a tongue, he quietly confesses: he also didn't.
Ooft. Herbs clung stubborn beneath his nails, the wizard starts to do as ordered.
Eden, drenched in that dizzying scent of maelstrom and lightning gales, is...profound, he supposes. They've all secrets here, about as gangrel a party of the doomed can be, but she, he canvases, boasts a particular sense of danger. In fact, she, he decides, is singularly cold. She grants him her glare, something serpentine in the venom of her taunt, and bearing her focus must strike men like an omen, but Gale, twice-dying, holds strong, impervious.
With a cant of his head, he even scoffs.
"Pish posh." Who says that? "Tainting my meal would require you first to befoul the whole of our luxurious supper tonight. Once you've indulged in my bouillabaisse, you'd think doing so a madness. You've a penchant for lightening the coin purses of others, I imagine. Robbing yourself of your wit sounds rather unorthodox."
Annoying wizard. Gale hands her the onion to cut, and with the night air wonderfully fragrant, stirs the cauldron, eying her. Hm... "Though, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you aren't much a woman to care for the conventional."
@heartslayer, continued from here.
