#interaction: ulircursed

🎲 2 - A kiss on the nose

She was not cruel by habit, but this did not preclude her from its practice when the opportunity presented itself so cleanly, trussed up in tight roughwoven rope. Not a hogtie, although there had been those among their party who had said it would have served him just as well, but the simple indignity of his arms to be bound behind his back as his legs splayed along the ground. 

There had been the thought to gag him as well, that he could not spout the venom that had so festered between those closest to him - his sisters chief among them, but Lord Sigurd as well - and as she approached, the plate of her armor bouncing along her thighs with every firm step forward, she thought of what a pretty sight he made, glowering mutinously from underneath those long blonde lashes. 

"It's you who has been causing us such trouble, is it?" Lachesis tugged a camp seat nearer, made a show of seating herself comfortably, of crossing one leg over the other and settling her chin into one hand. 

The relationship between Nordion and Yngvi was cordial at her most generous, nonexistent if she were more honest, but the relationship between Andrei and the world was nothing short of bitter, selfish, antagonistic. 

She watched him glare at her for a moment, and just as the look he gave her promised cruelty, so too would she allow herself its indulgence. 

"There's much debate about you, amongst the weightier voices in Lord Sigurd's army. Do you know, there are actually votes to spare your wretched life, as though you are more than the smear of insect viscera against a bootheel? It would never come down to such a vote in Agustria, please understand; my brother Eldigan would have slain you in an instant for what you've done. How lucky for you, then, that none of his like remain in this world." 

The tone of her voice was almost wistful, if not for the hardened edge, the lilt of disgust. Kinkiller, conspirator, and vicious little insect besides - even if Lachesis herself slayed him here and now, it would not have been half so satisfying. 

"Does that displease you?" Leaning back, she flicked at some of the grime that had gathered beneath her fingernails, tilted her head thoughtfully. "It might surprise you to know who it is who argues so fervently for your life. Well, I suppose it's of no matter, isn't it?" 

Casting a glance over her shoulder at the clamor of greaves against stone, a lock of her sleek golden hair tumbling forward with the motion, Lachesis snorted. "It seems your fate has been sealed. Would you like to place a wager on which they've chosen? No? Then perhaps I shall grant you this final courtesy." 

Rising from the campchair, she dusted faintly at the seat of her skirts, and dipped forward at the waist to catch his chin betwixt her fingers, bringing her lips gently against the tip of his nose before withdrawing, her eyes locking onto his for a final moment. 

"For luck." 

"I... believe there is a dress code for an occasion like this," Andrei says, tone less belligerent, perhaps, than it had been for Ethlyn, but no less incredulous.

Be dressed, at the very least.

He has no idea who this man is, whether his current affliction of shirtlessness is due to an unfortunate accident or deliberate choice, but it is something that necessitated remedy.

Though, it's not like Andrei had much to offer in this situation. He is certainly not willing to give this strange man his own coat, but the only other piece of cloth he has is a small, square handkerchief tucked into his pocket, and the only means of attachment would be the brooch that he was given. He offers the two meager items.

"Fasten it around your neck," he says, averting his eyes. Like the world's saddest cravat, but it would be better than the nothing at all that is happening right now.

"Whoa, no foolin'?" Where had he heard that before?

But where he maintained a teasing tone with the young lady who had attempted to scold him for his lack of propriety, playing dumb but ultimately harmless, Beowolf knew this little fucker, and his tone conveyed the fact that he hadn't forgotten.

"You thinkin' you wanna come at me for propriety, of all things?" He was as like to take the strip of cloth and turn it into a garotte until the nasty little shit's neck snapped - it would have been as suitably humiliating as the young Lord of Yngvi's last defeat at a Chalphy's behest.

Beowolf cocked his head, working through the spitting venom and wrath that frothed in his mind, before he grinned, and took the step forward, hand out -

And snatched the handkerchief, tugging it about his throat in a jaunty manner, tying a smart little knot about the new neckerchief that did genuinely and truly nothing to cover the expanse of his body.