[ Perhaps it is natural, that he echoes her in so many ways. Represents her, with blood on her mouth and breasts, in the way that his own red hair catches between the corner of his lips and pours over his chest -- it is only natural, for a warrior and the god of war to be such inelegant mirrors of one another. Even as he pushes his hand through the sleek fall of his own hair, dragging strands away from his own teeth, his own sneer at her lack of faith, he comes down to her.

Without any power to him, this strange woman could kill him as easily as he knows any horse he's ever ridden could kill a human. He's fragile, in this place, and it sickens him to his core to take notice of his own vulnerabilities. Perhaps it is why he descends to meet her, without flinching or fear, as though he were truly the god he once was, unstoppable and ready to face her and conquer. It is without violence that he does approach her, his expression sharp and studious as his eyes rake over her body.

Her heaving chest, the pounding of her blood in her throat and in the dun-colored flank of her lower body. ]

That she would accept naught that I gave her alone, means to me that the sacrifice cannot be made by my hand upon my own body. Perhaps if you bled me, or I bled you, the meaning would change.

[ Even as he speaks, he slides his wet fingers across his chin, cradling it -- curious and thoughtful. Eventually, he stands but an arm's reach away from her, his feet carrying him in small, steady increments towards her. Fearless, or foolish? When he looks, it is up towards her face. ]

It must be covenant, I suppose. The humans who tithed blood to us did so of their flock, the meat and life of animals they needed to survive.

[ He's not an idiot, after all.

But, with a growing, savage little smile, he laughs: ]

You must be quite the warrior, to slay a demon.