[ a little wince, at her shrill mockery, before his face hardens. gale eyes the antler warily, then orin's bare palm and sharp nails — no less deadly for willingly disarming herself, he's certain. gale splays his hands in turn, the universal gesture of surrender. less assuring, probably, when it's his weapon of choice, but the message is sincere. ]

I — [ he mouths meatsack, looking closer at her skimpy, fleshy attire. nope, best not to think about it. and bhaal? ] In a metaphorical sense, I suppose. [ a hard swallow. ] I've a fragment of the Weave itself inside me, unstable and insatiable. Meant not for the Chosen, but for the gods alone, though I didn't know it to be so when I sought it out.

[ he tips his head to one side and then to the other, considering. his face scrunches. ]

You're not going to stab me again, are you?