The Fel Veined --- @waverender
Of course she’s agitated– the green flush of her skin tells the whole story. Mannoroth’s blood, fed to her as a youngster along with the milk of her mother, pushing the rage, bubbling up the Orc’s natural hot temper into something that can barely be contained. Agitation is as ingrained into her as the green is in her pores. Deescalation isn’t something to be found in an immature Orc girl.
“I said give it back!” She’s screaming, hands outstretched for the mace in the man’s grasp. “It’s MINE.”
The pity of her rage is that Hedda is not imposing. More than scrawny, halfway to emaciated, the dregs of the defeated Orcs still running wild in the world.
“ Trust me, you will do more harm to yourself than you would intend. ”
Sigil in the air, electric blue like the bright of his eyes, the mace is heavy in his hand --- unfit, where the world of the warrior is only understood by the breadth of space of a battlefield. Often, he’s merely a watcher, a guardian that protects in the distance, perched. His fight begins with the flick of a page, spoken at a table, and brought forth with fingers and the whispers that leave his tongue.
He doesn’t want to harm, doesn’t want to kill her where the bloodlust had has no touch of what most would call evil. There is anger, that he knows, he understands, but she is not blinded by something so absolute. He hopes to get to her ( and keeps his other hand free to cast ). “ Honour may be what you wish for, but you need to choose yours wisely. ”
