"Skirts!" Vretla said in disgust.
“I’ll take care of it, Vretla,” Amel pleaded, obviously feeling protective toward the nervous groom.
"Fine,” Vretla spat back at him angrily. “Tolerate the use of hand guns! Let them talk down to you!” She shot a hot glare at Dela who stood by, blinking innocently, her heart hammering hard enough to make her ears buzz. “Let them insult your Vrellish blood!” She scowled. “Although it seem to have been amused the Gods of Resurrection to use up all your Vrellish DNA in the color of your hair! “ She got louder and angrier again. “Even a Vrellish stationer would not tolerate the insults you accept from the people you coddle and protect, Amel!"
Amel listened in reverberating silence. Then he fled from Vretla into Dela’s withdrawing room.
Vretla looked blackly around the room. "You want to kill him," she said to Ronan, "go ahead. I will make you sorry for it when I come back, but I might thank you when our souls meet in the void, free of our body's lusts."
Dela surprised herself by speaking up. "Where are you going, Liege Vrel?" she demanded.
"To cool off!" Vretla hurtled back over her shoulder, stopped, and turned around. She faced down Dela, hand on the hilt of her dueling sword, her firm body clad in leather and her feet planted wide apart. Blood slicked one side of her face from a cut she had taken in her fall. "I have to be able to deal with Amel without chewing a hole in my pants," she said. "I don't suppose you have male courtesans here, do you?"
"Male courtesans?" Dela echoed, in horror.
"Skirts," Vretla said in disgust, and stalked off. She went around the dead horse and out through the broken window, collecting a couple of hand-picked Dem'Vrel to accompany her.