Methuseld's glare did not diminish. If anything, that bonfire roared to life anew, heat licking at Donovan with renewed hate. "I'd say if you forced yourself on me, there would be no Knight left for me to believe<em>or</em>disbelieve." That icy tone from before returned, her posture straightening and firming up. Clearly the "normal" Methuseld, whatever that was, was back, free from any effects of Aza's or her armor's (though she was not yet aware of the latter, and wouldn't be unless fate or Aza informed her). The two snakes now coiled in what was certainly to be an invigorating exercise, though Dean was more wrapped up in Aza than vice versa from the looks of it, Methuseld turned to leave. "I think we should let them have their fun, if it... returns them back to normal. You can come with me to try and steer this ship away from the Vizier, or not; I leave it to you." The accented voice was firm in its nonchalance as the barely-clothed warrior turned to leave, only to have Donovan once more do something bizarre as they neared the intricately crafted heavy oak door.<br/><br/>Her eyes? What was he on about. Methuseld turned to him, saw a weird look in his eyes. As if he'd been somewhere far off, remembering something, and had been doused with a bucket of ice water to come back. Or somesuch. "Wh-what are you talking about? I shall answer no such question; we barely know each other. Are you "under a spell"? Because I'd believe it! Now stop and let's go make sure we're not about to run aground, shall we???" Methuseld was tensed, her voice lashing out like a whip against any attempt at intimacy. The truth was... yes. Someone had said it. Long ago, he'd said it often. But he was no longer there, the Vizier - a shoddy replacement at best, and between then and now lay a gulf of misery, hatred, and fear so wide that Methuseld, with her new-found freedom, scarcely believed she'd ever feel normal again. There was no going back for her, no crossing that gulf. And forward? Who knew what lay ahead - just mountains, fog, darkness obscuring the rest of her life.<br/><br/>Not giving Donovan a chance to respond right now, Methuseld briskly walked out of a room, a little ridiculous from the juxtaposition of powerful presence and oversized clothes, and gave Donovan no chance to respond until she was at the helm of the ship. The finely-sanded wood tickled her calloused palms as she twirled the wheel around to slightly correct course. There was no wind on the lake, but dawn was approaching, and in the distant dock of the city opposing her home for the past decade or so, she thought she saw a crowd forming to witness the bizarrely larger ship that seemed to have appeared on the lake for little to no reason.<br/><br/>