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A bit dizzy, with a bloody forehead Jet stumbled out of the crater he made in the dreamscape, with Cumhaill dragged in one of his mercurial arms. He tossed the fae ahead before stomping on his neck and yanking the spoon out of him. With the power of his Nishkriya mask gone and his injuries mounting Cumhaill came face to face with the possibility that he could die for the first time. And Jet loved the expression he was making.
“Say it. Say it!”
“I… I yield!”
Jet kicked him in the face.
“I accept Master Saffron as my better! Say it!”
“I accept you as my better… Master Saffron.”
“Good. Now, I believe you owe me a favor.”
The elf spat on the ground.
“My… essence is spent. If thou wouldst wait just a wee bit-”
“I don’t need your damn essence or any of your fairy gold. I want you Sword Grace!”
“Ah yes, my sword. Grace-”
Jet kicked him again.
“NO! The Sword Grace! The grace that is your sword! NOW!”
Cumhaill’s eyes shifted towards the feathered blade he was wielding. That is his Sword Grace, whatever that is. Jet took it with a grin. It seems weird that such a light little thing could be so dangerous, but as he learned it really isn't. It’s nothing but an illusion, a lie. Once one sees through it the things worth less than a buttering knife.
“Pleasure doing business with you!”
>Leave without saying another word
>”And if you harm the village or its citizens again I’m coming back!”
>”I’ll be seeing you later.”
>Custom
