Frey
"Soldiers have to eat, as far as I can recall," Frey reminds him, smiling around another bite of pie. "What's that old saying? An army marches on its stomach?" Locke's pessimism isn't going to cut it with the nature deity, that much is clear, and as he continues, Frey reaches out to bop him across the head, much like the stray cat that might have bitch slapped him previously.
Tilting their head, Frey peels a peach slice from the pie and slips it between their lips. "Sugar plum, if you want me to tell you that you're going to have to fight, you've petitioned the wrong god," they drawl, grinning. "What you do with your pretty little head is up to you. But war is coming, whatever it is you want to think about it. The question is - would you feel safer with claws?"
Tilting their head, Frey peels a peach slice from the pie and slips it between their lips. "Sugar plum, if you want me to tell you that you're going to have to fight, you've petitioned the wrong god," they drawl, grinning. "What you do with your pretty little head is up to you. But war is coming, whatever it is you want to think about it. The question is - would you feel safer with claws?"
