"Alive again," echoed loud pants, "-master, you have some explaining to do."
"Explaining?" by the time the healing spell worked, Igna had moved to sit beside the dancer. Her visage, mainly the eyebrows and lips, slumped and tightened, they spoke the chant of fear and terror, "-I don't owe you anything, my dear."
"Well, you do," he climbed and sighed, "-what's got you worked up?"
"Hard to pin down," he shrugged, "-Okay, well," the face froze, "-would it be relatable if I said I wanted to have a fit?"
"You acted."
"Yeah," he narrowed, "-Éclair, what's with the dead look in your eyes, it's unsettling."
"I have the right to be angry. So, this lady here," he inched forward, "-is my daughter?"
"Correct," added Igna, "-her scars, bruises and less than amiable clothing speaks volumes, yes?"
"You're correct," he pinched his chin in thought, "-what will we do about her?"