( He's inclined to agree, Clover is very much a girl's name for a horse. Then again, maybe his opinion ought not be taken into account — every horse he's ever owned has been named Stranger, after the god of death. Not exactly overflowing with creativity, nor a beacon of health masculinity.
He ambles a little closer, just a few yards, to get a better look at what she's doing there with the bones and the roots. The blood of her hands clings to them, and a frown pulls at his lips. It's not his business if she wants her hand to fester, though, so he keeps his fucking mouth shut.
He snorts at the question. )
The gods have nothing to offer me. Why waste the breath.
no subject
He ambles a little closer, just a few yards, to get a better look at what she's doing there with the bones and the roots. The blood of her hands clings to them, and a frown pulls at his lips. It's not his business if she wants her hand to fester, though, so he keeps his fucking mouth shut.
He snorts at the question. )
The gods have nothing to offer me. Why waste the breath.