Aithne laughs, a harsh sort of sound - quick, startling. Not near so fast and vicious as her hand slapping across Pel's face with a backhanded strike that brings a leather glove hard against brow and cheekbone.

"Very clever. We shall see how clever you might be without your hands, perhaps. Or without your tongue, if you'll not speak save for filth. As I recall you were happy to let the whelp speak for you all before."

Aithne looks to Sina, gaze sharp. "You seemed so fond of one another, before."

Herian pulls against her bindings reflexively, weakened but not yet severed.