Someone approaches - slate grey with strange claws piercing the skin of his neck. The King of Thieves casts a nonchalant eye in his direction, as if it is normal to seem as if a pack of wolves lives beneath your skin. He offers the gaunt fellow a somewhat whimsical smile, colored by the weight of what he had achieved. Evers the Able is not a loud man; his tones are hushed, as if spoken from an ancient place a universe away, but the meaning of his question is clear enough. Jackal blinks, red eyelashes fluttering before candid silver eyes. When the first traces of a reply begin to form in the whirling matter of his brain, he is interrupted by (he presumes) Archibald.

The draft comes like a summer storm; he is dark and tempestuous, his voice as low and deep as thunder - the appaloosa is afraid lightning will jump out of his eyes. His question is terse and urgent, and he draws closer to the dun, flies coasting over his black hide like a carcass. Jackal flicks a blameless silver eye upward, portraying all the innocence and fearlessness of his youth - he is undaunted. An angelic smile tugs at his lips, although there is something wicked beneath the swirling mercury depths - perhaps the glint of a steel sword? "She is craven and haughty, undeserving of the position she once held," he begins, eyeing Archibald's stony brother, tone unbetraying of the bitterness within his heart; he is still cherubic and poised. "Are you implying yourself as her equal - do you wish for the same fate as she?" Sterling eyes flick to the immense Shire, his voice is faintly amused, devoid of the arrogance his words may suggest. Shyly, Jackal wonders if the growth of a giant's brain stops at a certain size - a size the Dauntless as surely long surpassed. Childish laughter threatens to escape the cage of his ribs, and he instead gives a dawdling glance at the dog which follows the enormous draft. Is their bond as silent as Dei and his? If so, how is the bitch not mince-meat beneath the platters of her bonded's hooves?

Jackal lets his hips swing into a position of relaxation, a toe cocked lightly on the green grass. "What has happened since you have been appointed?" he asks, calm and collected, demonstrating none of the brimstone. A breeze whistles through the Foothills and through the Thief's auburn mane - are these two as adept as their names suggest, or is their reign a mummer's farce?