#killngfloor

Well, that was an answer he understood quite well. He'd given it so many times one would think he would learn to just lie. At least about something.

"I understand. As long as you are doing well, then." The mercenary looked around. They were getting close to the marsh. He could feel the damp and dank of thair deep within. Cold dark and wet places called to him. The water called him. What could be buried under even the shallow waters of a marsh?

Val'Kor holds his mask in his hands, cleaning it carefully so as not to let the gold somehow be stained by red. He looks over to Tisander when the man begins to speak. There's a moment that it's dead silent after the joke is told, and then there's a noise that sounds not unlike insectoid chittering. The creature's laugh was enough that it could unsettle most, but he doesn't seem to realize that.

“How d’ya manage t’come that conclusion?” she asks with nigh a hint of incredulity or shock, but instead matter-of-factness that does little to address the ramifications that such a statement should bring. Yet it isn’t as if she hasn’t been raised free of the knowledge of his type. The holier-than-thou extermination of their species by those who think they all deserve death solely for putting to practice what it is that they’ve been born to do. What they have to do lest they become actual threats, perhaps. Warped by their own beasthood.

Hell, her father wears the skin of a hunter, and she’ll carry that blood in hers, too, until it burns out.

Even with the strength behind them, those words remain fuzzy under the hammer of Salome’s heart. The biological threnody of bloodlessness equally as present in her ears as she stumbles over her feet, attempting to put some kind of distance between the creature she’s had the misfortune to encounter and herself.

And this is not even touching on the unexpected presence of the strange man who dwarfs her, even if she barely has the energy to take his advice at all. Nimble fingers coming to cover the shallow wound at her throat, attempting to find a middle ground between a stymieing pressure and the smothering of her own voice. Regardless, as Salome’s back meets the sharp bark of a tree, what rasps out is still hoarse.