Shredder XXVII
“Donkey dicks,” came the simple rebuttal, “I don’t believe you.”
Gerard gawped for a moment, not entirely sure he had understood her dialect. “Did you just say—”
“Yes, I did,” she interjected with calm flippancy, “You’re lying.”
The ranger looked around in disbelief, the surreality of the circumstances continuing to escalate. His mouth opened once without effect, and then a second time, though still without emitting any sound. Then scratching his forehead idly with one set of fingertips, he decided to take a simpler tack.
“Okay, are you cold?” Gerard asked in mollifying tones.
“Colder than a well digger’s ass in Arnok Province,” she retorted, though there was no outward indication of her temperature. Her color had flushed nicely, and from the vessels along her neck, her heart was thumping along with zest.
Gerard watched her, the poised potency of her, undecided as how best to proceed. He also knew nothing of any place called Arnok Province.
“I came across you laying unconscious in the night air,” he said, “And could not leave you in such an unhealthy state. Hence, the fire, the blanket, the stew.” His hand gestured around the camp for emphasis. “I’m not sure what more I can do to reassure you.”
“Unbuckle your weapons and toss them over here,” came her instantaneous reply, “Once I’m sure that you—”
“No,” Gerard interrupted her, “That, I will not do.”