If he knew she gave a damn about what kind of troll Capitol-- the cowardly panshattered vile scrapings from under the feet of the Demoness, thinking like they knew anything let alone what does and does not make a troll, especially with not one of them being one-- he'd tell her to not. They could think what they want based on their crafted arenas but none of the heathens would last on Alternia.

But he doesn't know. And he ain't paying attention to her face when all he's got the task at hand, trying to get this done as quick as possible.

He starts on trying to lift a candle to the top part, but to do such he can only use one hand to keep her leg steady. Olive green blood what ain't yet dried tries oozing down on the candles, marking their pale waxy outside, the floor, his hands. He pricks his lip with his own fangs. Just a bit more, just a bit more.