Tannerback Lane? The question briefly puzzles him as he considers the question honestly, at least at first. Still, lying never came easily to his lips however ruined they had become. The question almost lacks meaning entirely until he recalls, as if through a haze of heat, the determined, if foolish, Malaroth and how the man's hate had called to his own. It had been a sweet, aromatic wine of which Teron had drank his fill. Malaroth was no longer necessary.
That the constable would allow the lives of twenty cutthroats and thieves come to any prominence in their conversation led his concealed expression into a scowl. Such a question was a simple waste of time.
Therefore he ignored it.
Besides, the uncouth query into the nature of his relationship with Vraal had stoked his anger as a man feeds fire with timber. "My reasons for hunting Vraal do not concern you, constable," he offers as a cold, pointed retort. His hands, though they brush against the handles of both weapons, remain curled into fists.
Silence settles between them, heavy and bitter as the memories taunt Ashfiend with their familiar, haunting melody. Daring him to look into their depths, to plunder the beshadowed past, and remember what drives him on and yet what, at times, he would dearly love to forget.
"Hammer, fire and tongs," he rumbles at length, "Failed you because it was not always metal. It was once flesh. Stolen and reworked through treachery and magic." His gaze flickers towards Ariane at her remark.
"I neither will, nor need, do anything." he warns. "We have common purpose and for that this conversation may continue."
"For all its mystical quantites, its destruction requires neither magic nor labor." The burned knight, bedecked in the ruin of his armor, felt his seething rage cool as he followed the contours of her countenance. Her visage served as a glass that made only one thing disturbingly clear while rendering everything else hazy and unimportant. Within the swordswoman's gaze he beheld a monstrous memory; it was a grim melody he had composed with hands steeped in blood.
"It..." he began, his voice wavering as he fought against the tide of memory. "It... can only be broken by being claimed and resisted by a pious person for thirty days and thirty nights. At dawn," his voice slips back into an arctic, hollow tone," it becomes dust. It has something to do with equal parts foolishness and pedantic ideology."
A coarse, ice-laden chuckle escapes him and breaks the harsh grate of his voice. "An ironic weakness to be bestowed by its creator, given his nature."