“Yeah, it is,” Navalli snapped bitterly, “But the sooner this gets done, the sooner you can stop acting like I’m the executioner, and I can get out of here where the smell of wet dog isn’t haunting my senses.”
It was times like these she wished she carried spare rags on her. It would make this experience a lot easier. Her gloves were too thin to be enough.
“It’s better than smelling like a rotting corpse,” one of the werewolves piped up from the sidelines.
She whipped around and pointed a finger at him. “Zip it, mutt, or you’ll be next rug on my living room floor.”
“Don’t you have territory to be marking?”
He started forward only to be stopped by a couple of his buddies, and she settled on curling her lip up to bare her fangs at him. However, when she turned back to Gilmyn, she softened just the slightest. “Just let me help, alright? then you can get out of here and you won’t have to worry about-” me, “…anything.”
Gilmyn’s eyes swiveled back and forth between Navalli and the cheeky werewolf as though he was watching a tennis match. The pause in decoration gave him a moment to think, something he didn’t do very often.
He was surrounded by werewolves. Hungry ones, but they hadn’t tried to eat him yet despite the numerous threats. Still smelled awful, though.
Furthermore, he was literally attached to a blood-sucker who, despite having been chained together for a good long time, had only metaphorically bitten his head off. Sure, she was terrifying. But she wasn’t the savage, brainless vampire that had leered from too many of his childhood storybooks. Not one bit.
Gilmyn looked down to the forest floor, and noticed some oblong leaves that must have been blown down by some strong wind. Touching one revealed that they had a peculiarly spongy texture. He picked a leaf up and waved it in Navalli’s direction.
“I don’t have gloves. Just use this, and don’t fuck up your hands for a couple cheap Saturnalia ornaments.”
A nearby werewolf growled at that.