I mean, when you call yourself "the Patriarch" you leave yourself open for these criticisms really.
“You will face the Patriarch immediately!” Pavöl roared.
“Yeah, that sounds—“ Veronica began, but was cut off by Pavöl’s mitt enveloping her face, crushing her glasses. The plastic lens fragments cut her cheek but fortunately missed her eyes. “Mmph!”
Pavöl bodily hauled her into a large grey antechamber. First blinded by his hand and then by her naturally poor vision, nevertheless Veronica knew where she was: the cavern of the Patriarch, a gargoyle so old that he had become part of the cave wall itself, his glowing yellow pupilless eyes, facial features, and one arm all that emerged from the side of the rock.
Pavöl flung her to the floor. “Ow! Geez!” she protested, abandoning all pretense of shelteredness.
“Little sister, explain yourself,” the Patriarch intoned. His mouth didn’t move to form the words; instead they emanated from the wall he had become.
“Best guess? No stable father figure,” Veronica joked, rubbing her abraded face painfully. “Heh.”
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