Methuseld raised an eyebrow. So, he'd healed her after she'd gotten trapped beneath the rubble. She listened with growing anger as he explained his reasoning, pale eyebrows knitting above her less-than-amused glare. She'd caught the strange turn of phrase he used. 'For<em>some</em>reason he decided to pull her from the rubble...' It almost sounded as if he was trying to justify it to himself, perhaps subconsciously. To justify why he'd just saved the general of the man who wanted them captured or killed. He could have let her die - at least he and his friend wouldn't have to face her anytime soon, like he said. Plus - any benefit of the Vizier's men being a little more timid could be outweighed by her efforts to escape or let them onto the thieves' tracks. No - he was giving reasons, but they sounded like afterthoughts. Or perhaps he didn't want to say the real reason? Methuseld's gut was leading the charge on this suspicion, no doubt. But she believed it. She believed this guy saved her because he didn't want to watch her die. Maybe she was imagining it, but it looked like it was all over his face. The man, perhaps a knight of some sort, wasn't a killer. "You think threats will scare me? You think your shadow friend<em>raping</em>me scares me?<em>Please</em>. The Vizier's pet" - a subconscious hint of disgust with that phrase - "isn't afraid of threats like that, empty or otherwise. Just try and rape me - see what happens," she said, scoffing in an astoundingly arrogant way. This was not a woman you could have a great conversation with at a pub over a pint of ale. She seemed dead, void of all joy, passion, and tenderness. A hunk of metal, cold and gray as those eyes of hers, pale and dull like her "golden" hair, which lacked any of the joyous aspects of a normal blonde's hair - blonde in name only.<br/><br/>That is, assuming he caught any of it through the filter of the male gaze. Methuseld sensed his eyes drinking her in. She knew she was beautiful - once, she'd been happy she was so beautiful, because it had brought her wonderful husband to her door. Now he was dead, and all her beauty brought her was shame, sadness, despair. So she'd become a marble statue - masterfully crafted yet cold, hard, unfeeling all the same. Perhaps he sensed it, perhaps he didn't, but it mattered not. Methuseld's heart was dead after what she'd been through, and she wasn't sure it could ever be revived.<br/><br/>"Yes, let's allow my years of martial training betray me momentarily so that I may lapse into revealing all of the Vizier's plans to you. I have been commanded to capture you,<em>thief</em>, and that is exactly what I will do. One way or another. These bonds will not hold me for long. Now<em>that</em>is a threat you should take seriously. And if you expect a thank you for healing me, you'll get none. It was your wanton disregard for the laws of Kulratha, and Zazim the Vizier, and Zozo the Sorceress, that caused my unfortunate situation. You have just begun to right your wrongs, and the task will only be completed once you return what is Zozo's and spend the rest of your short, pathetic life in a dark, cramped, damp little cell. Or the Vizier might take pity on you, for reasons I'll never understand, and break you and sell you off to the first fat whore that sees you. Won't that be<em>nice</em>."<br/><br/>Pursed pink lips, a steely-eyed glare, and flared nostrils told him that she considered the discussion over yet was fully willing to dish out more tough talk if necessary. For all that she lacked in the field of "nice" emotions, she made up for with an utter mirth at cruelty. It might have made it hard to imagine a Methuseld that wasn't always like this - that was in fact the polar opposite of this woman. Pale-golden hair and ivory skin angelic, not cold. Eyes like silver-and-onyx pendants, a wealth of emotion and richness of character within, instead of cruel and cold and dead like sword-steel.