“Forgive me for doing my job as Royal Inquisitor,” the god grumbled, perplexed features accenting the white eyes scanning over her form. “If you have business here with Odin, girl, you will have to go through me. Although with an attitude like yours, I already suspect you could be one of his unfortunate bastards.”
If his maliciously pale -- no eyes were that pale and benevolent too, aside from perhaps a seer’s -- had been meant to intimidate her, they were unable to cause the younger to waver. “Bastard!” she growled, eyes flashing with unswept anger, even if she’d surely been called worse on the streets of Knowhere, even accompanied by the same mother who’d birthed her, but Vilja had always advised caution -- too much at times for Dagrún’s tastes. “Call me that once more and I shall part your tongue from its mouth.”
