That voice. Those cocky vocals. They infuriated him.
Whitner sneered and got on his feet, taking the planks he had worked hard for and tossing them at the other man.
"Here are your fucking planks, you highness." His voice dripped with a condescening touch and sarcasm put on the last word.
His messy hair flew gently in the autumn wind, the hood formerly covering it laying discarded on the ground by the thief’s feet.