Neerin Neelia's expression fell further into grief-- further improving Tycondrius' mood.
The filth-blooded whore leaned forward, prostrating fully with her forehead to the floor.
"What. a. sight!" Tycon grinned, "The... mighty... dragon race... lying prostrate before a mere mortal. Have you no shame, Neerin Neelia?"
He was pleased.
But...
--that was not enough.
"Does your shamelessness stop there?" Tycon teased.
Neerin lifted her head-- but only enough to strike her forehead against the stones.
Again and again, enough to draw blood.
"Tyrael, please..." she sobbed, choking on her tears, "I'm sorry... It's all my fault."
Yes. Whatever she was referring to, that was probably true.
But still, nothing would be enough.
"We're done here," Tycon waved.
The miserable wretch sat up.
She removed her gauntlets and began untying her armguards.
Odd.
