In the light of the forge (warm red and orange and white), Nuada's yellow eyes widen, seeming to soak up the fire and heat. Laughter, at his expense? He tilts his head to the side like some manner of reptile; so far during their conversation he has kept his moderate distance out of something akin to respect, but now he closes the distance like a diabolical stop motion puppet. Horst talks, and talks of the devil, and oh isn't that so very amusing; the corded muscles of Nuada's arm twist and bend as he brings it down and up in an arc, landing bare knuckles to one high cheekbone. His other hand shoots out, grabbing the dead man by the buttoned front of his waistcoat. Lips curl menacingly over too white teeth that, while not pointed still give the impression of inhuman sharpness.

"Of all the insolent fools I have suffered in my time, you insignificant little cur, you speak of the devil on his throne as if he is your master. Satanist! Christian!" He snarls, hisses, enunciates every word. "You were not always dead. When you still drew breath, a mere child, and you stood before a darkened hallway, why do you think your spine tingled in dread? The hairs on the back of your neck would stand up, your heartbeat would begin to race, while you told yourself to be a big boy.

"The devil didn't make you afraid of the dark, he never scratched the floor beneath your bed at night; he never lured anyone into a bargain they couldn't resist. I did. My people did. And you lecture me?"