Whether it was the best thing to say or the worst was impossible to know. There are no words in answer to the priest's defiant declaration or her pain filled struggle to stand up and express herself. A pair of hard blue eyes like shards of ice watch her from the frigid waters without a hint of smile or scowl. If anything this ghost has all the seeming of an animal's shrewd and alien wit, piercing the soul rather than the body without giving the impression that she understood a word of what was said. It is a small wonder she does not tilt her head.

Instead, she rises. And rises. And rises. An impossibly long, lanky, and muscular body surges forward and slides out of the water as easily as a seal might. She is leather and chain and fur from neck to toe, decorative skirts clatter as she climbs into the air and everything she is drips pink tinged water on the floor and on the priest. As she lifts toward her full height she starts to bend forward as well. It obscures her exact height, but the impression of the movement is less that she is ashamed or troubled by it and more that now that she has started moving her body does not wish to stop. Forward is as good as upward. So she looms as the bending branch of a gnarled tree might.

One long arm bends at an impossible angle and plucks the little priest into the air as one might grab a cat. Her robe is her scruff. The warrior holds her close to her face and sniff-sighs. 

"I do not think you appreciate your situation, Master." she says, and tosses the woman into the bath she'd just stepped out of.

"Deny me all you like. It does not change your reality. You don't need my war? The others fighting it will not care. You have summoned me, and as the most powerful of the lot of us I will have answered the call last of all. Do you wish to pursue your vengeance in the face of a thousand traps, ambushes, and even armies? I admire your dedication to dying a warrior's death in the face of your loss. I will not deny you the attempt."

She crosses the length of the room in a handful of long, loping strides over to the fridge. She grabs a fresh bottle from the fridge before closing it with surprising gentleness and returns to place it in the priest's trembling hands. A thumb and forefinger stretch out and tear the cap off with a mere suggestion of movement.

"Drink. Rest. You are very fortunate to have summoned a king, since you cannot be one yourself. Very well: if you will not command me as a leader or compel me as a lover then what is left is for you to bend your knee instead. You might be so broken that you're barely supplying me with any of the energy I need to fight, but you're still what binds me to this world and I will not tolerate you dying on me before I even get to make my wish. You have that responsibility as a Master, whether you asked for it or no. "