(--)
Ithiel is by me!
Though the dusky-furred coyote did not believe himself worthy of priestliness or godliness, his mind held onto her compliment. It was one of the few he'd gotten in life praising something other than archery skill or his ability to track a foe down; the only other compliment he remembered was Alma's, and perhaps she didn't count -- he'd only been polite and cute in comparison to the scum she'd left tied up. Try as he might, Ithiel could not push the image of the man wandering the city streets, bound and subdued by such as Alma. It continually resurfaced in his mind, and he shoved the thought away, just as he usually did.
He twitched his shoulders in response to her comment regarding whether or not she was an invalid. It was an "as you please" sort of shrug, and the dusky-furred hybrid, once ascertained of her ability to remain on her own two feet, was quick to hop back into his own saddle. He did not trust Lystra to be led back to the mansion -- she might grow interested in the horse -- Châtiment, she'd called it -- and he would not wish for extra trouble from the big mare. We are all blessed in some way or another, he proposed, shrugging. Everyone, even the most vile scum -- such as the canine who'd attacked Alma and ended up tied up, shamed, wandering through the streets -- no, he commanded himself, gritting his jaw as he headed in the direction of the D'Neville.
Dried it is, he muttered, suddenly colder. Why couldn't he shake that mental image?
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