"You wound me." Replied in her patented phlegmatic tone, “Yet the sentiment is all the same.” Their exchanges stood as par for the course. Rilvas and his /awful/ penchant to physically pluck and prod at one’s resolve. A neaderthalic twin to her own clever means of verbal dissection. As for a game of touching well she could play along, and make note to bath vigorously afterwards. Reaching to tug upon him by the front of his ratty clothing, “A dead skeever is more useful than a live one."
“You hit me first!” Rilvas pushes his lips together in an ugly pout as he whines; shoulders hunched forwards as both hands go to his hips, cocking the bony body-part to one side to add to the performance. It gives her an ample handful of the lining of his coat in all its unwashed glory; the slime of viscera still rendered the brown fur around his collar wet and sticky. Oh, the things he does for love. That pout twists upwards in a grin, body teetering forward almost comically as if her tug was dragging him closer. If he pouted any harder they might kiss, but instead Rilvas lets their closeness remain nothing more than that. He has no doubt that his words are accompanied by the smell of raw (and rotten) meat on his tongue, and that in itself was good enough. “--I could say the same about you, sometimes.”
