Her scathing remark is quick and heated, likely as unbidden to her as it is surprising to him. Hazel is typically more reserved around him, keeping herself guarded, but without even trying, he's managed to strike a nerve enough for a glimpse of honesty. "Men like me?" he muses, his voice cool and curious -- lacking all the bite that had driven into her tone. "You barely know me," Seneca mentions, his head tilting ever so slightly, eyes slightly narrowed, though it is with intrigue rather than annoyance. Who, exactly, does she suppose he is? Hazel's following question is more measured, but he can still sense that it comes from a place of distaste. A thin simper flashes over his lips for a moment before he offers a subtle shake of his head. "No. Merely an observation," he hums, leaning onto his haunches. "You make your own contributions," the man remarks, gesturing an idle forepaw at her garden. She has earned herself the recognition, at least, that he knows she is not lazy.

image by koafox, code by koi

It's not anger, but rather a coldness, that answers her firey proclamation. Hazel isn't sure which she would prefer: fire or ice. A silver crawls up her spine, a sense that she's standing on the edge of a precipise and she needs to back up now.

"What you've shown me is more than enough to know I don't need to see more." She replies softly, carefully. He is a king, a sexist, a pigheaded fool. A stab in the dark would tell her he is a womaniser, and he's certainly arrogant and calculated. Power hungry. Everything she hates.

Hazel regards him cooly, watching him recline. Making a point of not leaving her alone when she'd like nothing more than to curl up and lick her wounds. No physical ones, no, but these ones are torn fresh and hurt just as much as. There's a moment of uncomfortable silence before she answers. It's close enough to praise that it makes her skin crawl. "I do what my trade requires." It's the most diplomatic way of dismissing his comment she can think of.

There is a low hmm in the back of his throat, mulling over her observation with the same measured curiosity as before. Whilst Seneca does not pretend to be inherently kind, he does find it interesting the Hazel seems to think she's got him all figured out -- his motives, his intentions. "If you say so," he offers somewhat dismissively. She is entitled to her opinions, and the medic's distaste for him has little impact on Seneca's feelings; he lacks an inherent need to be liked, and if she wants to paint him as a villain with only half the picture, she is welcome enough to it. "So you do," Seneca agrees mildly, appraising her for a lingering moment. With the conversation trailing to a dead end -- not much else to be expected, really, considering her opinion of him -- he opts to leave the woman to her herbs. Shaking out his mane and pushing himself to his feet, Seneca heads back towards the borders to continue his patrol with a casual, "have a good night, Hazel," slung over his shoulder. Exeunt Seneca

image by koafox, code by koi

Her skin can almost feel his gaze like a physical touch, and her lips curl in response. But just as quickly as he’d come to bother her, Seneca dismisses himself with a parting jab. Hazel is left standing in her garden, watching his retreating form. It’s not until he is entirely out of sight that the druid makes herself move, returning to her job as if it wasn’t interrupted at all.

Exit.