( Men wither before her, or stray from her path. They do not question her — this one does not question her, does not instigate. The absence of immediate discord seems to ease her, the line of her shoulders crumbling. )

The House only opens for days, every few years. We do not impose on it, to break its peace.

( No one is familiar. Not clearly, not otherwise. But she seems amused by the suggestion enough that, crosing her arms over the crass linens that covers her chest, she entertains the notion of watching Wrathion carry out his work. )

Slower. With the plucking. You will break skin. It is fatty and good, once it hits the flame. There is too much hunger to waste it.