Artemy flares up in anger that boils so red hot he hardly knows what to do with his body. In an instant he's on his feet, hand in Pyotr's hair, yanking him up out of his chair.

By the looks of it you'd think the Haruspex is the one drunk, his eyes widened and crazed, but anyone who had observed him that evening had known he hadn't had a drop to drink that evening.

His fury was simply that deep. Fury that was fed by something new.

Shame.

He's quick to get up into Pyotr's face. The time for thinking is now far gone.

"Get my children's names. Our of your mouth." He says with all of the righteous fury he feels. One last warning. One.