"They will take away my freedom and lock me in the bowels of Ommat. Away from the sun and wind, the sky and turf. You would require this of me."
"Your insignis requires it." The venator, the same one that shook his had not a minute past, spoke up. His voice was flat, unyielding.
"Quiet." The matrem spoke the work softly but it was a whip all the same, and the venator flinched. "I did not give you leave to speak."
-from Dancing Circles, a work-in-progress.