With his thirst for wine sated the Wolf of Bracum seemed entirely indifferent to the venomous glares Asag threw his way. In truth, the Mountain's irritation appeared to be the only thing providing the man any amusement in that gods-forsaken siege.
That of course and the mountains of bodies they were leaving behind.
"The Mountain sits, while the Wolf still wanders. Strangely fitting, wouldn't you say?" Xanthios rumbled, a dry chuckle rattling in his chest like stones in a tin cup. He dragged a heavy oak stool across the floor with a screech so sudden and piercing the physician jumped, and Asag felt the vibration deep in his aching molars. "Careful with that meat, sawbones. If you ruin his sword-hand, I'll see to it you lead the next sortie armed with nothing but a butter knife. Eh?"
"My day was already a feast of shit, Xanthios," Asag muttered, his voice thick with a bone-deep exhaustion. "My thanks for providing the dessert."
