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The Sublime Overlord of the Realm
She could hear someone coming up the stairs even before he had come to her door. The thump thump thump of his hasty feet were all that was truly necessary to prepare herself for him as soon as he stopped before her door and opened it. The wooden contraption swung with a low squeak as the hinges rotated, but it phased Een not at all. In fact, she didn't even look at him when he entered, his eyes scanning her silently for several moments as she played her tune. Even as Rayond's voice urged her to listen to him, she continued playing over his words as if his presence perturbed her not. Een remained silent as she played for several long moments as she thought quietly about the words. Obviously my 'silver tongue,' as you call it, has convinced Brown of nothing nor coaxed him to act. Her vibrant eyes glanced up.

Rayond's appearance was as dull as his demeanor. As if he had willingly and voluntarily gifted his soul to a devil, he seemed devoid of all emotion either for good or for ill. Mud brown eyes with no sparkle of life, stiff posture, and no natural rise nor fall in his speech, the man was a soulless golem who was no more capable of emotions than he was capable of feeling anything at all for his blank face spoke multitudes to that persuasion. The high elf's fingers kept tumbling from one string to another, each one a precise strike for a dancing tune, a country jig. He expects me to dance for him now. I am no puppet.

I have already informed Sirrah Brown that if he wishes to go with you, I will not accompany him to watch his demise. As you might also deign to recall, I have an unfortunate case of frostbite and will not be utilizing my feet for at least one more day hereafter. Furthermore, in the case you might have forgotten, a storm rages outside, full of all Yuth's icy fury. Without giving him further time to argue with her, she continued brusquely. I bid you a lovely trek through the snow. And may the spark of your existence wane far, far from this place so not to tarnish it further by your grossly inflated sense of self. She stopped playing to fluff her shimmering silver hair out behind her shoulder and giving him a scathing, yet icy glare before flicking her hand at him in a shooing gesture. Go now. Shoo. Perhaps it was bravado, perhaps it was a sense of anger. It was hard to tell. A part of her wanted to see this man, this crooked dealing, smooth tongued prig of a man, angry. He might be noble born, but so was she and she would not be treated like a country tart being told when to come and when to go. On top of that, she was going nowhere on the unshod feet that she had tucked under a blanket. At least that much was common sense to her.
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Frostbitten · Hiskarin Mountains

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