He was angry. Not just ‘very’ angry. He was long past words adding an extra tea-spoon of emphasis. Nor ‘extremely’, ‘incredibly’, ‘heaping’, or ‘truly’ much less any understated ‘rather’. No, Typhon was angry; and his anger was sufficient unto the day that he could be calm and friendly about it all. Your usual metaphors of rage are storms and lightning and volcanos and dragons. But Typhon was born of those things. He'd long left his child toys behind. His expression of anger was a patient smile and a kindly regard, and unless you looked into his eyes you could be fooled into thinking he was
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