[Estinien stares at her as if she were no more than some vile creature daring to flood his view with her grotesque form. The scowl on his features would be familiar to her, an expression he bore to Nidhogg and his kind when they were nothing more than beasts to be slaughtered. Vehicles of his unbridled rage and hatred.
Admittedly, she is not quite that, nor is she even scratching the surface of that sort of reality, but he's notably pissed. Certainly her words are doing nothing but stoking those flames of that aggression, and the arrogant way she boasts who he's certain she isn't helps nothing.]
I ever grow weary of these lies.
[With an accusing jab of his finger towards her, he continues with the same ferocity:]
You are naught more than a mummer with fraudulent and twisted beliefs swarming her head. While Aymeric is an open and good man, he would not take a wife that would sooner sew discord in Ishgard, than bring about the peace and change he has sacrificed so much for. Your constant slander to his name with these falsehoods do naught but incriminate you further.
[There's a pause, before he continues, as if he was contemplating bringing up the sword again. That perhaps his point was well enough on its own, but he clearly decides that isn't true.]
Nor would he bequeath a treasured heirloom so thoughtlessly—particularly when he has known many things, but death's embrace is not one of them! I have suffered the prattling of your fantasies long enough.
[His voice growls, low and threatening. It's been a good while since he's been this agitated, and in a way it almost feels good to feel this anger. In the sea of anguish and mourning he's otherwise been saturated in, the spark of hostility is an all too familiar friend.]
Know this: I will sooner betray Aymeric than entertain your egregiously fatuous claims. You are a woman rife with delusion—begging me to abandon my senses to believe a world and reality that never were—you should pray that our paths do not cross again.
If truly you are familiar of me as you continue to boast—though my doubts are absolute—then by your account you should know well of the enemy you have made.
[With that, he'll turn once more to head out. They've quite the audience as it is, and he doesn't care to continue. Not when emotions are this high, and he is without his lance.]
no subject
Admittedly, she is not quite that, nor is she even scratching the surface of that sort of reality, but he's notably pissed. Certainly her words are doing nothing but stoking those flames of that aggression, and the arrogant way she boasts who he's certain she isn't helps nothing.]
I ever grow weary of these lies.
[With an accusing jab of his finger towards her, he continues with the same ferocity:]
You are naught more than a mummer with fraudulent and twisted beliefs swarming her head. While Aymeric is an open and good man, he would not take a wife that would sooner sew discord in Ishgard, than bring about the peace and change he has sacrificed so much for. Your constant slander to his name with these falsehoods do naught but incriminate you further.
[There's a pause, before he continues, as if he was contemplating bringing up the sword again. That perhaps his point was well enough on its own, but he clearly decides that isn't true.]
Nor would he bequeath a treasured heirloom so thoughtlessly—particularly when he has known many things, but death's embrace is not one of them! I have suffered the prattling of your fantasies long enough.
[His voice growls, low and threatening. It's been a good while since he's been this agitated, and in a way it almost feels good to feel this anger. In the sea of anguish and mourning he's otherwise been saturated in, the spark of hostility is an all too familiar friend.]
Know this: I will sooner betray Aymeric than entertain your egregiously fatuous claims. You are a woman rife with delusion—begging me to abandon my senses to believe a world and reality that never were—you should pray that our paths do not cross again.
If truly you are familiar of me as you continue to boast—though my doubts are absolute—then by your account you should know well of the enemy you have made.
[With that, he'll turn once more to head out. They've quite the audience as it is, and he doesn't care to continue. Not when emotions are this high, and he is without his lance.]