"Dying is not as dreadful as this," Oathran declared to the canvas ceiling of the tent, erected by the werewolves for a night's rest on the long trek back to the fortress-city.
In his hand was a bottle of surprisingly fine whiskey, smuggled into the rescue supplies by Arkai's men. It seemed a werewolf's priorities remained admirably clear…
He took a long pull from the bottle, looking like a being who usually sipped celestial nectar but had currently decided that mortal oblivion had its… occasions.
Arkai sat beside him, helpless, awkward. More tangled than anything. "What Arzhen did to Saintess Araceli… Is it true that he… marked her belongings in his… scent… in such a despicable way…?"
"You heard it yourself," Oathran answered. "Perhaps she didn't tell you at first because she couldn't bring herself to articulate how vile your nephew was. But after witnessing the vileness the two of us just produced… she found it a fitting comparative example."
