Stone on stone, a loud click right after. The noise was as familiar as fire at that point.
As snow fell through the steel grates high above them, Redory widened the eye at the sight before him. “The fuck are you doing, wench?”
The Dove laid on the stone bed, flakes falling all over the feathers of her robe. Her eyes were closed. “Meditating for the Goddess. What else is a priestess expected to do, pray tell?”
“Meditate on your feet, then.” Redory could see his breath. “You are no priestess, nor do you deserve to lay down.”
The green of her eyes opened, either the most dazzling of emeralds or brightest of jades. “The World is not fair.” Her head turned. “Is this venison I smell?”
*Venison, greasy pork, and fatty goryd.* “Pig shit and other excrements; more than you deserve.” The man seated himself on the floor beside a marble wall, heavy bags on his side. He strapped his silvery gloves to his belt.