The strength of her emotional response caught Gregor off guard. He listened as Loka defended herself, his eyebrows rising higher with every word. There was obviously some powerful cultural disparity at work here, he realized. After her affirmation of her understanding, Gregor opened his mouth to say something but couldn't find the words. He wanted to explain himself, make her comprehend that obeying the law was of great importance to him and that his anger was nothing personal, but the fact that she had the gall to expect him to give the fork [i]back[/i] to her meant that he was at a loss for words. Instead, he stuffed the fork into his greatcoat's left pocket, his mouth clenched in a thin line and his raised brows sinking into a deep frown. He sighed, beckoned for her to follow and started making his way back to the road. The grim look on his face and the severed head clutched in his right hand invited no further conversation.

The moonlight filtering through the canopy above was slowly mixing with the fiery orange of a misty sunrise. Gregor could feel the fatigue in his limbs and the hunger in his stomach -- the prospect of deep sleep in a proper bed and a hearty meal urged him on. They wouldn't sleep in the carriage, he decided, even if Oaksheart didn't have a tavern. He was sure he could commandeer a room for himself and Loka somewhere with the leverage of the werewolf's head. 

"We will stay in Oaksheart," he announced, not bothering to look over his shoulder at Loka while they walked. "I want to learn how the creature came to be here and how it got infected. Did you notice how wild and mad it was? It must have been new to the curse. Something infected it, and recently."