[He lapses into a deeply thoughtful silence, absently sucking the inside of one cheek for a moment. A knowing look flickers in his eyes as he considers the young woman and the keen intensity of her stubbornness, protectiveness, and fierce defiance at the time, the very things that lie within himself. Inevitably he could only wonder again and with a throbbing pang of envy how many might defend his corpse so vigilantly and respect it after his spirit had fled.]

…And then pickle you quite nicely.

[He offers with a smirk curling his lips, not turning his head enough to meet Zevran’s gaze fully.

And then comes a gratitude, something he forever lacked the grace and kindness to handle masterfully, that is, without a flippant wave of the hand or a some sort of contemptuous scoff. He remembers the steel blade - the extension of his will - thudding powerfully into soft, weak flesh and burying more than halfway to the hilt; he remembers the trill of excitement passing through him at the raw intimacy of taking a life, and at close range, allowing him to watch Zevran's eyes glaze over. What could be regarded as an act of mercy from one perspective had also been an opportunity all too readily taken to achieve catharsis by a bloody, savagely satisfying means - and he imagined the elf was aware of this. He chuckles through his nose, testing the point of the hot knife with the tip of his finger.]

I shall find a way you can repay me.

[He drawls, as if preoccupied with filing his long fingernails into claws. Being the one to kill him is the only way he would have had it.]

...Though I would suggest that you start by lifting your hands from me.