Iorveth was perched on a moss-covered rock with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle below him, and he held a half-constructed arrow between his fingertips, twirling it uninterestedly. The rushing sound of the nearby waterfall didn't drown out his words, and his hair, loose and unhidden, wasn't quite dry, either. He was unconcerned with the one before him; his bow was well within reach and he had blades strapped to his hips, and with a word he could have his men summoned in an instant. It was hardly the first time someone had approached him when he appeared to be alone.
❛ They speak and threaten with grandeur when they believe the Scoia’tael to be too far away. And then they take one look and are afraid, not of their own deaths but of me. They realize they've nothing to fight back with. ❜ He smiled, not out of joy but out of bitter amusement, and the scar marring his face twisted like a snarl. For the first time he looked up and met the other's gaze, his own narrowing when he saw their unnatural hue. ❛ I see no fear in your eyes. ❜
