Shredder XVIII
“Your time is up, Merinde,” the voice knifed through the chattering din, carrying enough smug malignance to fill a keg.
“We’ll see about that you ignorant basilisk,” Merinde replied from the edge of her seat, fingers steepled on the table on either side of her considerable frame. Matters were grim, that much was certain, but she had seen worse. Hadn’t she? One calloused hand rose and descended in practiced rhythms over a small crock, transporting the singeing liquid within to her lips. She wiped the spittle from her mouth and slid the vessel away. A bottle tipped to refill it before its momentum subsided.
Merinde gave her situation a few more heartbeats of thought before reaching once more for her drink.
“Now you’re just stalling,” the man sitting across from her jibed, one set of fingers twirling an all but prehensile length of mustache. Silence descended in the wake of his taunt.
Forest green eyes flicked up from the table and caught his gaze. Merinde set the drink down within easy reach and continued to stare at her adversary.
“As I recall, Seravis,” Merinde spoke with razor sharp tones, “There were no time constraints outside of those imposed by the Dance.”