[ Peter leans forward, arm resting on the back of her chair (Or-- is it actually a throne? It's kind of hard to tell if Maya buys into the whole pomp and circumstance of her position. Throne seems more thematically correct, he thinks), and while the frigid look she sends his way would send her monks scrambling away to avoid her wrath, he just shrugs. It makes him nervous, certainly, and he knows fully what she's capable of (seen it over and over, in fact), but weirdly, he gets the impression that she lets him get away with more than the others in her-- company? Court? Whatever.

Which is dangerous for him to assume, he knows. Could just all be in his head. He needs to keep his guard up, avoid becoming complacent -- otherwise she could see to it that their contract is ended permanently. ]

Just saying, Your Worship.

[ There's no sarcasm in the way he says the title, but there's a definite quirk of his eyebrow that shows he's certainly thinking of it with a touch of irony. He shrugs a shoulder, ignores the blatant gawking and outrage from the monks at his audacity to enter her personal space so freely. Then again, most of them keep at least five feet between themselves and her at any given moment. ]

Even you could do with a break. Quick nap. Maybe a sandwich. You've been slaughtering folks since this morning.