[Suzerain of Sheol]

What was a jovial, if somewhat strained, atmosphere in the emperor's company fast becomes direly hostile. A grimace of constrained outrage tightens Charlemagne's features at the ungracious laying on of hands, and his attendant paladins are quick to take to their feet. Ogier has a hand on the sword at his right, Curtana. Perhaps only his Paladin's code prevent him from blasting the barbarian dignity to ash where he stands.

More collected, Sir Maugris attempts to intercede, stepping forcibly between Charlemagne and Ylnjor to confront the foreigner as much to put space between him and the Holy Emperor.

Clearing his throat, the lithe sorcerer speaks in mollifying tones. "While such camaraderie among the chieftains of thy... spirited... people may be the norm, I must implore thee to never again defile the Emperor with thy rude touch. As His Grace," he nods to Pope Clement behind them, "will attest, Lord Charlemagne's flesh is sacrosanct and inviolable. It is utter profanity to disdain such a forbidding. But how couldst thou have known?" Something sinister and threatening crawls in his eyes as he speaks the last, a promise of unspeakable sorceries merely awaiting his beckon.

"As it stands, I may only adjure thee to behave thyself, lest my companion here grow imminent wroth. He has not the boon of patience with which the Great Powers hath graced myself."

"Aye," the Dane growls, his hard brown eyes unblinking in their glare. "'As it stands,'" he does his best to affect Maugris' sibilant accent, "My hope to meet you in the melee is redoubled. May God see it so." The glance he passes to Charlemagne as he seats himself speaks of brutal vengeance.