Who is he to demand apology? To demand decorum? Who is he, but a ghost of a man stretched thin across the canvas of his life? Let him paint himself with authority, let him challenge a Judge Magister—
They both know how poorly it would fare.
“Go lick her wounds if you are so faithful, hound.” He meets that stare through the metal of his own helmet, fierce-wrought lines a picture of unfeeling iron. Unyielding in its defiance.
“I’ve no desire to hear you prattle, nor do I care what you think of me.”
Barrow opens his mouth, then closes it again. He opens it once more, takes a breath, pauses, smiles strangely, and looks off to one side, like he can't quite believe what he just heard.
It's not that no one has ever disrespected him before: that's par for the course. He deals with it every day. His friendship with Jone is nigh built on it.
But such contempt only comes along once in a blue moon(s). Giving an absent nod, Barrow chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before turning his gaze back on Gabranth, shrewd and piercing.
"You might not have chosen to be here, mate," he says in a low, quiet voice, "but you're sure as shit here now. And you'd better find someplace useful to stick that attitude." He rolls his shoulders to step away, going to pick up Jone's poleaxe, which has been lying on the cobblestones since she left.
"Not doing any favors stuck in your mouth, as it is," he adds, his smirk icy as he straightens and scoffs, "Judge Magister."
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no subject
They both know how poorly it would fare.
“Go lick her wounds if you are so faithful, hound.” He meets that stare through the metal of his own helmet, fierce-wrought lines a picture of unfeeling iron. Unyielding in its defiance.
“I’ve no desire to hear you prattle, nor do I care what you think of me.”
no subject
It's not that no one has ever disrespected him before: that's par for the course. He deals with it every day. His friendship with Jone is nigh built on it.
But such contempt only comes along once in a blue moon(s). Giving an absent nod, Barrow chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before turning his gaze back on Gabranth, shrewd and piercing.
"You might not have chosen to be here, mate," he says in a low, quiet voice, "but you're sure as shit here now. And you'd better find someplace useful to stick that attitude."
He rolls his shoulders to step away, going to pick up Jone's poleaxe, which has been lying on the cobblestones since she left.
"Not doing any favors stuck in your mouth, as it is," he adds, his smirk icy as he straightens and scoffs, "Judge Magister."