Despite his best efforts to remain still and unthreatening, the woman’s constant movement was beginning to make him antsy. It was not in his nature to remain passive for this long while a potential threat stood before him—no matter how much the intensity of their encounter seemed to be dwindling by the second. As she turned and retraced the steps she’d taken in the half circle, Dresden shifted his stance slightly—and slowly—to a more comfortable position. He crossed his arms over his chest, icy gaze watching the Courtier canine the whole while.
Her dangerous words encouraged the ghost of a smirk to tease his lips, but he subdued it quickly. “A wise view to have. Perhaps your cause is not so hopeless if you can see that,” he said, the sound of approval dancing among his words. One could not win a war without inflicting hurt upon their enemies. Peace did not win wars. Cowardice did not win wars. It seemed like this woman understood that, which pleased the warrior. She introduced herself at last, and the warrior returned the favor. “Dresden,” he supplied, along with a short nod of greeting. “And yes, battles are a song and dance I have practiced many times over.” The scars littering his torso were evidence enough of that.