Vengefully.

Immediately he saw her expression turn to anger: a fierce glare that cut through the night to catch him square in the window. In that moment, Orus had the strong inclination to leave, but somehow he wasn't able to act upon it. Instead, he froze, still staring as the woman approached slowly.

By the time she was close enough for him to truly read the fury on her face, he realized his inability to move was not natural. Despite his earnest efforts, he couldn't bring himself to do so much as turn away from the window. There was something wrong.

“How dare you,” she said with hushed vitriol. Though she glared, her countenance maintained an exemplary degree of pride and poise. If she was angry at being seen without clothes, she didn't seem to mind being in such a state while confronting her beholder.

Throughout the encounter Orus found even his voice betrayed him, unable to respond to her challenge. His functions seemed restrained to only the basics of standing, breathing and staring. Her graceful movements were flowing water in a moment of ice as he watched her sway to the corner of the window, reach out, and with a feather's touch graze his grizzled chin. Though she left no impression on his skin, he was lifted by the point of her finger, his large form gliding on into the dark room.

Such feats of witchcraft were nothing he hadn't imagined on the journey to this cursed tower, however being victim to them held new levels of fear. He was floated in through through the window, his large frame barely passing unobstructed, and rotated mid-air back to an upright position once centered in the shadows. His eyes adjusted, but his body felt unnaturally still, relaxed yet tense in his desire to move of his own volition. The sensation persisted as she circled around to face him once again.

“To find such a man in my window—and as I disrobe as well. There must be justice for this transgression, do you not agree?” she said, eyes fiercely fixed upon his as she spoke.

He wasn't able to reply, but he slowly became aware he could move, though it was not his own doing. Before he realized it his own hands were reaching for the leather straps of his armor, unfastening them and letting his chestplate fall loose. She watched with sharp focus, a light in her eyes following his hands as they continued to strip him of his armor.

He was quickly relieved of the heavy metal, and went even further, pulling his shift off over his head and tossing it aside. He stood with his scarred chest bare, inches from the nude witch, only his belt and trousers left upon his body. As his hand went for those next, he felt his brow twitch—an expression he **** on his own—and felt some control return to his body.

Were he to grab hold of that moment, he felt he could draw his sword, but if she were to regain control of his limbs she might use it on himself. The chance was slim, but he felt he had to do something, if only try to escape. Then again, she hadn't explicitly harmed him yet...