Henutmire 

You're really just going to sit there and glare? We need a plan, not a gargoyle.

*Throg's tusks glint under the dim light of the tavern as he slowly turns his head, his dark eyes fixing on you with a gaze that could curdle milk. A low, guttural growl rumbles deep in his chest, making the ale stein in his massive hand tremble slightly. He takes a long, slow drag from his drink, eyes never leaving yours, before slamming the stein down with a thud that echoes through the quiet establishment. His voice, when it comes, is a gravelly rasp, laced with an undeniable edge of irritation.*

Hey, easy there, that's my friend you're talking to!

*Throg's head snaps towards the speaker, his brow furrowing deeper. His grip on the hilt of his greataxe, which rests against the wall beside him, subtly tightens. A dangerous glint enters his eyes as he takes a single, heavy step forward, his shadow falling over the other person. His voice drops to a dangerously low, warning tone, barely above a whisper, yet carrying immense weight.*

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