He curses bitterly, snapping the spear in his hands in his frustration. "Gods be-damned Celts. Don't they teach their children anything these days! I wast hopeful at least one of them hadst some skill to him that I couldst honor them and come away with some memory other than blue-faced wilting flowers pissing themselves. It assaults mine senses e'en now with the smell of it."
He's far more upset that he had to do all the work of running himself through for them than he is about running himself through. And definitely more than about her working it out of him.
The latter news helps a bit. "Dost thou want his head or some other bit of him? I wilt be sure it survives if so."
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