malice

"Harold", she stammered, residual traces of fear still in her shaking voice.  "I am sorry… truly."

He paused in his exit and turned slowly, looking her quivering body up and down as he did so.  He studied her like a beast debating its prey before bursting into laughter.  The stench of ale wafted across her pale, adolescent face reminding her of the worst in men.  She grew more fearful of his demeanor than she already was of his destroyed face.  "One voice wailing in sorrow", he mocked, "amongst the cacophony of those screaming in terror when they look back lustily to see the Devil riding them.  A fine chorus for the Damned I suppose."