He sits up higher, tipping his head away from the auditory onslaught with a wrinkling of lips back from his fangs. Like a jay shrieking at a bigger bird--it's a rare man who'd go for words over blows when the opportunity for both presented itself, and the former's even more likely to be useless.
He admires it even as he wants (longs) to turn Volk's face to the floor and lean in until the screaming stops. It would be easy; it would be a waste. (It would be wrong.) The last bellow gets an actual wince out of him, slow-motion; he closes his eyes until the ringing in his ears stops. That's surely alerted anything that might be listening; if he wants a kill out of this he's going to lose his opportunity, soon enough.
But: your team FUCKING lost. Half of what Volkhov's said is useless, a quarter's incomprehensible nonsense (net inter to what,) but that sticks.
"We lost?" There's so little inflection on the words and they're so quiet, Volk likely won't hear them. Even Illarion can realize that after a few seconds' thought. He sits up further, shifting his weight off the smaller man's chest. Still in some semblance of control but not as stifling.
Louder, then: "We lost?" No, actually, they haven't yet. "We lose?"
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He sits up higher, tipping his head away from the auditory onslaught with a wrinkling of lips back from his fangs. Like a jay shrieking at a bigger bird--it's a rare man who'd go for words over blows when the opportunity for both presented itself, and the former's even more likely to be useless.
He admires it even as he wants (longs) to turn Volk's face to the floor and lean in until the screaming stops. It would be easy; it would be a waste. (It would be wrong.) The last bellow gets an actual wince out of him, slow-motion; he closes his eyes until the ringing in his ears stops. That's surely alerted anything that might be listening; if he wants a kill out of this he's going to lose his opportunity, soon enough.
But: your team FUCKING lost. Half of what Volkhov's said is useless, a quarter's incomprehensible nonsense (net inter to what,) but that sticks.
"We lost?" There's so little inflection on the words and they're so quiet, Volk likely won't hear them. Even Illarion can realize that after a few seconds' thought. He sits up further, shifting his weight off the smaller man's chest. Still in some semblance of control but not as stifling.
Louder, then: "We lost?" No, actually, they haven't yet. "We lose?"