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He wanders closer, half expecting the pair to chase him off – half hoping that they would. Then again, chase is a strong word. He’s in no condition to be running, least of all from these two lifetime athletes. It just feels wrong to intrude on a conversation where the other members appear so familiar with one another, so similar in make, especially when one of them is your freakishly intimidating King.
In comparison Albrecht stands apart, like an old cow so rundown that the lions let him wander their enclosure unbothered, but the cow will never truly forget the nature of lions and Albrecht will never fully trust the Reaper or those who share his type. There’s a wildness in their eyes that makes him feel uneasy. They seem to look through him rather than at him and it isn’t with the careless dismissal of arrogance that they pass him over (there’s nothing alarming about an inflated ego) but with the full bodied confidence of knowing exactly what they’re capable of.
He shoves the feeling away, telling himself that if the Lord of the Basin hadn’t seen fit to crush the life from his lungs at the tent painting event he probably won’t be tempted in a random border encounter. Still though, he holds his head a just a little bit lower and reins in his usual coarseness.
“Welcome.” He offers simply, nodding to both. The mare has obviously gained approval already and from the only herd member that really matters, so he sees no reason to question. In an impressive (at least to those who may have met him before) display of both respect and good manners he then shuts his filthy trap and resolves to keep it that way until spoken to.
The Reaper talks about job titles and god wars, things of actual interest, and draws the old blacks peevish ears forward. He’s met the candy coated crafter and seen a few of the bullish warriors roaming about, but he wonders at the word, “spies.” What all does that entail?
In comparison Albrecht stands apart, like an old cow so rundown that the lions let him wander their enclosure unbothered, but the cow will never truly forget the nature of lions and Albrecht will never fully trust the Reaper or those who share his type. There’s a wildness in their eyes that makes him feel uneasy. They seem to look through him rather than at him and it isn’t with the careless dismissal of arrogance that they pass him over (there’s nothing alarming about an inflated ego) but with the full bodied confidence of knowing exactly what they’re capable of.
He shoves the feeling away, telling himself that if the Lord of the Basin hadn’t seen fit to crush the life from his lungs at the tent painting event he probably won’t be tempted in a random border encounter. Still though, he holds his head a just a little bit lower and reins in his usual coarseness.
“Welcome.” He offers simply, nodding to both. The mare has obviously gained approval already and from the only herd member that really matters, so he sees no reason to question. In an impressive (at least to those who may have met him before) display of both respect and good manners he then shuts his filthy trap and resolves to keep it that way until spoken to.
The Reaper talks about job titles and god wars, things of actual interest, and draws the old blacks peevish ears forward. He’s met the candy coated crafter and seen a few of the bullish warriors roaming about, but he wonders at the word, “spies.” What all does that entail?
@Deimos @Rhiannon
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