One man's trash

Basilisk rolled his eyes at the terrified, slowly backing slave. “You've been mangled, rendered nose blind, and hung with the intention of your death, but words have you quivering?” He has thought she might be made of sterner stuff than that. Perhaps he should have left her hanging. Her color had the possibility of serving his intentions, but she was hardly the only orange wolf out there.


While his attention was on the slave, his wife started to fall apart in front of him. When Ignita cried, he generally went one of two ways. Do everything he could to fix it, or lose himself to anger. Today, that anger had the touch of exasperation. “No.” He growled, smacking a paw to the earth in front him. Heavy enough to leave a gouge in the stone. “You, to your room. And don't come out until you find some inner fucking strength or something.” He snarled at the slave, pointing at a room down the corridor and to the left. He waited until shebhad fled before turning back to Ignita. “Is your life not what you wanted it to be? Have I not given you everything?” He snarled at her.