Oh, this youthful peasant girl was horribly ill-mannered. Clever with words, mayhaps – but Barnaby’s eyes narrowed anyway, because he liked to be the annoying one in any interaction, not the other way around.
(This was what he got for deigning to mix with the masses in their goddamned public houses.)
And it only got worse at her next remark – “I am not a fan to waft or anyone’s personal ICE HOUSE!” Barnaby fumed, tone going increasingly shrill in (more) indigance. He folded his arms above the hilt of his death-sword to resist the urge to swat uselessly at her, as if she were a flea to squish. (A pity for him, that he could not even squish a flea; all that was left to do was insult her back, he supposed, and so he did, with a judgemental glare.) “Particularly not for the comfort of some dirty unwashed trollop.”
(This was what he got for deigning to mix with the masses in their goddamned public houses.)
And it only got worse at her next remark – “I am not a fan to waft or anyone’s personal ICE HOUSE!” Barnaby fumed, tone going increasingly shrill in (more) indigance. He folded his arms above the hilt of his death-sword to resist the urge to swat uselessly at her, as if she were a flea to squish. (A pity for him, that he could not even squish a flea; all that was left to do was insult her back, he supposed, and so he did, with a judgemental glare.) “Particularly not for the comfort of some dirty unwashed trollop.”
