The instant Fenn ceased moving, Souta's heart skipped a beat.  Every ounce of dread one might feel when stepping on a landmine, in the split second before it revealed itself to be death or defective, washed over him.  Souta could feel the malice radiating off him in the form of smothering heat, enough to flambé  a turkey.  That pressure sparked a reaction in the smith, causing water to well from his hoodie and swirl around him.  He stood still, his lips ajar but his teeth closed in a surly scowl, while the hellhound turned to face him.  [i]Does the underworld not have morose sarcasm?[/i]  Surely Fenn wasn't taking him seriously.  Of course, that meant he was just being an asshole, which Souta decided he took even more issue with.

Adrenaline began to flow, and what instincts Souta had honed for battle during his time with Gilgamesh started feeding him information.  Fenn, moving slowly for the intimidation factor, would have to kick himself into gear in a hurry to avoid or block a shot to his face.  While not as great fan of westerns, Souta fancied himself a pretty fast draw with Deluge.  Fenn drew closer, and just like a schoolyard bully uttered his threat.  Realistically, Souta did not enjoy his chances.  But he felt sure that, rather like the watchers, he was 'protected' by whoever chose him as an agent, and moreover by Lily, so what he said was, [color=teal]”F-fucking try it, kudaranai inu.”[/color]  Water flowed down his right arm, amassing into a glowing aquamarine node in his palm.

However, the confrontation was not fated to continue.  Under normal circumstances Souta would not have liked someone coming to his aid and defusing a coming fight, but given his prospective opponent he felt far  grateful than stifled.  The pressure dissipated and the dire moment passed, and with it his water retreated as well.  Fenn attempted to turn on Lily, but the weakness of his comments and retorts showed how beaten he was.  The demons could trade jibes all they wanted; Souta felt more and more sure with each passing second that an impromptu throwdown would have been a big mistake, even as he felt more confident in his guess about 'protection'.  That said, the smith did commend himself for not happily flinging himself into a potential snare, as Fenn pointedly pointed out.  Whatever desire he'd felt for Lily in the heat of the moment had simmered down by now, but as long as it kept the dog off his back, he would be happy enough to be on the good side of the one who held the leash.

A moment later, the trek resumed after a final spurt of vinegar from Fenn.  Souta found himself wondering why the hellhound talked like that more than anything.  No matter how sophisticated or above-it-all he tried to sound, Souta reasoned, he just a mean, mad dog on a leash, his only real claim to fame being born with more power than he deserved.  Still, he shivered a little despite the jungle heat.  Something else to shoot at might calm his nerves more than anything, but since arriving he hadn't seen a single monster that wouldn't look hilarious with a flea collar.  Knowing that Fenn would be listening to his conversations from now on, Souta tried for eye contact with Lily to issue a nod of thanks.