"Nothing to do,” the gargoyle grumbles, as if he's already heard the answer a thousand times before. "Crack it open on a rock. Make it look like it was not dead, and then it is. Oops the darling, so that fate can come wanting." "You are always practical, but rarely anticipatory,” Truce says, tapping a thoughtful silver-tipped finger on his chin. If he applied even the slightest pressure, I believe he would slice his neck open. "We cannot tempt fate. What's done is done. She is a Slip. We cannot make her more than that, but...” Truce's eyes narrow as he tips his head with a grin. "Could she be made less?" The gargoyle springs from its haunches. It paces the half roof on it’s grasshopper legs. "Too pretty for ugly," Moag sneers, as if what he is saying is not the answer he truly wants to give. "And it is entirely stupid. This is not to be learned! This Slip is no Gargoyle Queen." The last word is spit, a tangible glob of it landing on one of the stones, in front of my mangled feet. Broken and dead, I am still repulsed by the implication of what Moag has said. Then Truce drifts closer.
