[ Something in him is snapping and coming loose, isn't it? He's ungraceful and clumsy but when he comes at her, clawing and biting like he is, there's killing intent. It's not a case of temper and pressure, it's a desperate hunger. The kind you're born with. The kind that could be made into something worthwhile.

It sidesteps a few of his blows, clumsy as they are. But then in a flash, it raises the shattered bottle and catches the pick between two ragged edges. At crossed swords like that, Eglantine smiles and inclines her head. ]

If you were newer, you could be forged as well. You have what it takes to be Made.

[ The whiskey bottle pops and plinks as she shoves back against him. ]

But who would forge you? There's nobody left, is there?