“A quirk of my native culture,” Sato explained. “Last names last longer; I have serious trouble keeping any given name longer than a century. People tend to distrust senior citizens with schoolgirl complexions.”
Jord “smelled” like—sap? Like sugar, like salt, and like minerals, like the rough dreams of trees. It was a complicated, old perfume, the texture of which Sato couldn’t quite weight. Sapwood or heartwood?
“I want no piece of my heart near that one.” Sato gave one last, long glance at Wrath before pointedly turning away. An uncomfortable twinge momentarily persisted in her conscience. Mischa would arrive soon, what if…
Resolutely, she turned her attention back to the ice. “Speedy and the Grim Reaper along with, who? Nuclear and one of the Greeks?” Sato settled back in her seat, body aslant towards Jord. “You’ll get no argument in defense of divinity from this old monster.”