Again, the Dragon stands there and stares fiercely, wordlessly, damn near to gaping across the room in a fury. A thousand thoughts buzz in a flurry through his head, all along the same lines -- What in hell does he want from me? Groveling? Bleating like a servile sheep? Obedience and acquiescence?
But eventually his thoughts make a darker turn, just about skirting the possibility that Kit may be pointing out a relatively reasonable request for tamer language, quick as Sarkan is to label it mollycoddling.
He turns and walks away from Kit, gazing off out a window instead, his hands clenched into fists. Or, rather, his hand; the one that glows a faint, sickly green and pulses with dull pain at inopportune moments.
"Tell me," the Dragon seethes, "do you really think I'm pitifully ignorant about my lack of title, or how that has nothing to do with my request that you follow my instructions? Or is it that most of you are all too eager to think I'm just a vile demon out to consume your souls, and thus characterize me in this way, to hell with what I do?"
no subject
But eventually his thoughts make a darker turn, just about skirting the possibility that Kit may be pointing out a relatively reasonable request for tamer language, quick as Sarkan is to label it mollycoddling.
He turns and walks away from Kit, gazing off out a window instead, his hands clenched into fists. Or, rather, his hand; the one that glows a faint, sickly green and pulses with dull pain at inopportune moments.
"Tell me," the Dragon seethes, "do you really think I'm pitifully ignorant about my lack of title, or how that has nothing to do with my request that you follow my instructions? Or is it that most of you are all too eager to think I'm just a vile demon out to consume your souls, and thus characterize me in this way, to hell with what I do?"