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“She doesn’t like strangers.”

Karayan rolled his eyes slightly as the little dragon-like creature crawled onto her master’s shoulders.  “Well yes, that was rather obvious,” he said in exasperation.  “Most people do not greet strangers by trying to breathe fire down their necks.  I’m not so eccentric I can’t recognize animosity when I see it.”
He sat down with a huff, taking note of the various foods on the banquet table.  “I must say, they really went for extravagance, didn’t they?”  The vetala nibbled on an oatmeal cookie before stealing the entire plateful and happily munching away.  “I must pay my respects to the kitchen,” he mumbled around a mouth full of crumbs.  “If I ever find out how to get there through this maze.  Best hope that goose didn’t cause much trouble there, I’d hate for supper to be ruined.”  A thought struck Karayan and he glanced at Connel.  “D’you think they slaughter animals in the castle, or by them from the butcher?  I’m a touch thirsty at the moment and I tend to get cranky when parched.”
Not even waiting for Connel to answer the vetala swept his gaze across the table once more.  His brow furrowed.  “Now who dug a trench into the cake?”
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“I’m sure whatever she did she deserved to be punished,” he said easily “but she really is too insignificant to know better.”

Þorunn didn’t give the man the honor of meeting his eye, instead tightening a strap on one of her bracers.  “I would not say condescension is a punishable act,” she said mildly, “but it is an irksome one, and I am prone to bouts of irascibility.  The incident is wholly my fault.”  It was an old strategy of hers; people did not expect her to openly admit her flaws, and it gave the illusion that they could not be so easily used against her.  The shieldmaiden eyed the gathered people.  Her teammates, she supposed.  The one facing her must be Connel.
“Connel Kyrell, at your service.”
Þorunn met his eyes with a sharp, warning look.  She wanted neither him nor his service.  “Þorunn Ragnvalddottir, at no one’s service but mine own.”

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