Though the stranger had been clever with his movement, he couldn't have known he was seen. Rick frowned when he broke from the cover of brush and pulled himself into that tree. Was he another after this blind man's head? Just how many people had the pale one pissed off?
Had stopping to help been a big mistake?
Then the humming began, sending a quiver through his whiskers. Every hair on the tips of his tails stood up and he growled softly. Musical enchantment - probably Fae. He would have said something in the manner he'd been using before, but in that moment a strange scent hit his nose and he froze. Demon scent. Subtle and strong, too many things at once.
One part of his brain said sweet - oh so sweet and frisky. The other screamed run. Run away from the poisoned rot.
It took a few moments before he could form a halfway coherent thought and he had to shake himself, literally, to get there. Leaves drifted down from the branch he was on, brushing the heads and shoulders of those below.
Meanwhile, the song went on. Even a few of the horses could be seen dozing where they stood, tails lazily swatting the occasional fly while their heavy-lidded eyes looked on without seeing. If not for the confusing mix of attraction and terror jolting through Rick, he'd certainly have joined them.
Wait. Did that man say ranger-assassin? Not just a thief but a killer, too, and-- and--
Reeling from too many conflicting things, the following occured: Rick muttered aloud (something about negatory scallawags), misstepped (slipping off his branch), and landed on someone's horse (smacking the poor thing in the face).
It gave a shrill whinny, rearing back and attempting to wheel away from its previously unseen attacker. A now-visible fox darted, foolishly, between the legs of the nearest group of knights (also unpleasantly surprised by this turn of events). And some poor sod got kicked by a panicking horse. One panicking horse leads to more and next thing anyone knew, another poor knight was being dragged by the stirrup as his mount tore off further into the woods. Others balked and tossed their heads, disobeying the commands of their riders as the song took a turn for the worse. Louder, now, and deeply unsettling.
All in all, an extra unpleasant string of events for a topsy-turvy day.
Had stopping to help been a big mistake?
Then the humming began, sending a quiver through his whiskers. Every hair on the tips of his tails stood up and he growled softly. Musical enchantment - probably Fae. He would have said something in the manner he'd been using before, but in that moment a strange scent hit his nose and he froze. Demon scent. Subtle and strong, too many things at once.
One part of his brain said sweet - oh so sweet and frisky. The other screamed run. Run away from the poisoned rot.
It took a few moments before he could form a halfway coherent thought and he had to shake himself, literally, to get there. Leaves drifted down from the branch he was on, brushing the heads and shoulders of those below.
Meanwhile, the song went on. Even a few of the horses could be seen dozing where they stood, tails lazily swatting the occasional fly while their heavy-lidded eyes looked on without seeing. If not for the confusing mix of attraction and terror jolting through Rick, he'd certainly have joined them.
Wait. Did that man say ranger-assassin? Not just a thief but a killer, too, and-- and--
Reeling from too many conflicting things, the following occured: Rick muttered aloud (something about negatory scallawags), misstepped (slipping off his branch), and landed on someone's horse (smacking the poor thing in the face).
It gave a shrill whinny, rearing back and attempting to wheel away from its previously unseen attacker. A now-visible fox darted, foolishly, between the legs of the nearest group of knights (also unpleasantly surprised by this turn of events). And some poor sod got kicked by a panicking horse. One panicking horse leads to more and next thing anyone knew, another poor knight was being dragged by the stirrup as his mount tore off further into the woods. Others balked and tossed their heads, disobeying the commands of their riders as the song took a turn for the worse. Louder, now, and deeply unsettling.
All in all, an extra unpleasant string of events for a topsy-turvy day.
Marcello's face wasn't particularly unpleasant- he was probably considered attractive for his kind, with long whispy hair that dropped over one of his pale eyes, the rest pulled into a neat ponytail. His jaw was marked with a scar, as was the bridge of his nose, and many others unseen beneath the fabric of his clothing. Hopefully they would remain that way."Kneel?" He spoke, with a particularly irritated tone to his voice, but he didn't press further. He stood still as Pentre circled him, looking angered with having his hood taken off, the coy smile vanishing. No, it wasn't only that which troubled him- this song was bothering him, the human part of his mind lulling in its thoughts.
And the demon part, the incubus in his blood? Oh, that was hungry. Very, very hungry.
When Pentre reached for him, though Aynor stopped him, Marcello moved away suddenly, turning on his heel and taking a few steps away from the pair. He had lost focus on them until Pentre spoke again, his head turning to glance at him, and then listening silently as the leaves fell. Wasn't that fox friend in the tree? Was it even his friend...? He had a feeling this pack belonged to that one, and so he clutched it in his arms with intent to return the possessions.
The smell had gotten quite stronger, and those with a keen nose could smell some kind of strange undertone, that smelled faintly of gunpowder. Though the charm hadn't fallen, this new scent was certainly unnerving. He hadn't fed in a while, and if he didn't turn before he ran out of energy, he would be practically helpless. But if he turned now, the chance of him losing his temper were high, and the cambion had long since renounced his violent pasts.
There was a loud crack that echoed from him, and with a wince, he dropped the bag and even fell to the ground, his hood falling back over his head, a hand going to his shoulder. He had never been known for a strong will, and this song, combined with his weakness, were wearing him out- and fast. He looked up, to where he assumed Aynor had still been, his plain eyes full of pain and of pleading, "Tell me you have some kind of pla--"
And then, Rick fell. Marcello's body jolted at the sudden noise of the horses and the chaos that began to erupt, and the song had begun to change its tone, sounding somewhat bitter, shaking his nerves and his will. The young man put his hands over his ears, dropping his head to the forest floor and curling up in the best ball he could manage; he would only pray he didn't end up trampled, but maybe this was better than exposing himself?
And the demon part, the incubus in his blood? Oh, that was hungry. Very, very hungry.
When Pentre reached for him, though Aynor stopped him, Marcello moved away suddenly, turning on his heel and taking a few steps away from the pair. He had lost focus on them until Pentre spoke again, his head turning to glance at him, and then listening silently as the leaves fell. Wasn't that fox friend in the tree? Was it even his friend...? He had a feeling this pack belonged to that one, and so he clutched it in his arms with intent to return the possessions.
The smell had gotten quite stronger, and those with a keen nose could smell some kind of strange undertone, that smelled faintly of gunpowder. Though the charm hadn't fallen, this new scent was certainly unnerving. He hadn't fed in a while, and if he didn't turn before he ran out of energy, he would be practically helpless. But if he turned now, the chance of him losing his temper were high, and the cambion had long since renounced his violent pasts.
There was a loud crack that echoed from him, and with a wince, he dropped the bag and even fell to the ground, his hood falling back over his head, a hand going to his shoulder. He had never been known for a strong will, and this song, combined with his weakness, were wearing him out- and fast. He looked up, to where he assumed Aynor had still been, his plain eyes full of pain and of pleading, "Tell me you have some kind of pla--"
And then, Rick fell. Marcello's body jolted at the sudden noise of the horses and the chaos that began to erupt, and the song had begun to change its tone, sounding somewhat bitter, shaking his nerves and his will. The young man put his hands over his ears, dropping his head to the forest floor and curling up in the best ball he could manage; he would only pray he didn't end up trampled, but maybe this was better than exposing himself?
Pentre rolled his eyes at the disarray and more annoyed at Marcello who was cowering and curling into a ball instead of coming along.
"Slayer... take his bag, pick him up and carry him... remember... not a scratch on him or you´ll get hundred times as many" warned Pentre waving some archers
"Shoot all the stray horses and their riders... I don´t need undisciplined cowards among my ranks" waved Tron the Terrible effectively sentencing ten men to death where they stood for no other crime than their horse bolting.
No sooner his hand was waved down the buzzing of arrows filled the air and bolted horses with their drowsy guards, especially those nearby Pentre, now lay scattered upon the ground covered in red pools of blood, lifeless or soon to be so.
"Formation and ready to march at once...on foot... hold your horses steady" ordered Pentre leading by example though Aynor had to lump with Marcello's weight, the physical contact making matters and lewd thoughts all the worse but knowing better than to object to Pentre's command for his sake as much as the blind man's.
"Slayer... take his bag, pick him up and carry him... remember... not a scratch on him or you´ll get hundred times as many" warned Pentre waving some archers
"Shoot all the stray horses and their riders... I don´t need undisciplined cowards among my ranks" waved Tron the Terrible effectively sentencing ten men to death where they stood for no other crime than their horse bolting.
No sooner his hand was waved down the buzzing of arrows filled the air and bolted horses with their drowsy guards, especially those nearby Pentre, now lay scattered upon the ground covered in red pools of blood, lifeless or soon to be so.
"Formation and ready to march at once...on foot... hold your horses steady" ordered Pentre leading by example though Aynor had to lump with Marcello's weight, the physical contact making matters and lewd thoughts all the worse but knowing better than to object to Pentre's command for his sake as much as the blind man's.
Well, then.
While he'd expected the Lord Knight to hardly be affected, he hadn't expected this particular response. The sheer brutality of it. An impressive display of the traits that would make this man such an.... expensive target. How delightful.
So inspired by Pentre's actions, Enri shifted to a new song entirely. Occasionally mimicking bird calls and animal cries, he wove an unsettling melody - disjointed, dischordant, and full of primal rhythms. To those affected, it would start by raising the hairs on their arms and working their hearts into a state of agitation. Considering that many of those present were likely already fearful of their leader, Enri hoped that was already the case so they could move onto his favored part.
Those poor folk would start to hallucinate - subtle things at first, like shadows deepening or shuddering out of the corner of their eye... insects crawling out from the armor or hair of their companions... voices sounding wrong. Then the real fun: hallucinations would intensify, presenting the victim with ghostly versions of their worst fears. Gripped with such terror, most dropped whatever was on hand and fled. Others cowered in place. The brave few tried to attack their fears, unaware of that affect on their companions.
And if a song could be aimed, Enri was doing his best to do just that. This song was dedicated to the archers in Lord Knight Pentre's employ. With any luck, he could further thin their ranks before they made it back to town.
While he'd expected the Lord Knight to hardly be affected, he hadn't expected this particular response. The sheer brutality of it. An impressive display of the traits that would make this man such an.... expensive target. How delightful.
So inspired by Pentre's actions, Enri shifted to a new song entirely. Occasionally mimicking bird calls and animal cries, he wove an unsettling melody - disjointed, dischordant, and full of primal rhythms. To those affected, it would start by raising the hairs on their arms and working their hearts into a state of agitation. Considering that many of those present were likely already fearful of their leader, Enri hoped that was already the case so they could move onto his favored part.
Those poor folk would start to hallucinate - subtle things at first, like shadows deepening or shuddering out of the corner of their eye... insects crawling out from the armor or hair of their companions... voices sounding wrong. Then the real fun: hallucinations would intensify, presenting the victim with ghostly versions of their worst fears. Gripped with such terror, most dropped whatever was on hand and fled. Others cowered in place. The brave few tried to attack their fears, unaware of that affect on their companions.
And if a song could be aimed, Enri was doing his best to do just that. This song was dedicated to the archers in Lord Knight Pentre's employ. With any luck, he could further thin their ranks before they made it back to town.
Marcello’s good hearing was starting to become do harm than help; he was already shaken from the blood and thankfully his lack of eyesight meant hallucinations were limited to small, physical things, like sensations on his skin, and hearing things that were not there.
Maybe that wasn’t so lucky.
But Marcello had lived through quite a lot in his many years, and so these sensations, although terrifying, we’re things he did his best to explain to himself. Part of the power of a spell such as this was that most users were unaware of its activation, or had little understanding of the magic- or at least, that’s what he had heard from a friend he had made, a young man in a tavern with a voice as smooth as silk. So he just kept reminding himself that this song was the cause, but then came a new worry about his companions, both the strange fox and this one who carried him, Aynor.
So Marcello did what any sane person would do, shifting in Aynor’s grip and putting a hand over his ear, leaning up to whisper in his uncovered ear, “Focus only on my voice, anything more and you may end up like the poor fools who’s horses ran off.” His voice was now surprisingly husky and low, a stark change from the soft tone he would regularly spoke in. One of the many gifts the cambion had come to learn and use, was the effects of a voice. Some liked a soft whispering voice, that brought to mind the feeling of lace along your skin. Others preferred a husky, deep tone, and he found that the second usually garnered a better reaction than the first. Sometimes they liked his normal tone, laced with stutters and natural, and he was usually flattered when they did.
His eyes shifted to Pentre as he whispered to Aynor, hardly concerned with the wellbeing of this man anymore. Nope, he would be sure to kiss that princess again when he saw her, hopefully right in front of that hideous man.
Maybe that wasn’t so lucky.
But Marcello had lived through quite a lot in his many years, and so these sensations, although terrifying, we’re things he did his best to explain to himself. Part of the power of a spell such as this was that most users were unaware of its activation, or had little understanding of the magic- or at least, that’s what he had heard from a friend he had made, a young man in a tavern with a voice as smooth as silk. So he just kept reminding himself that this song was the cause, but then came a new worry about his companions, both the strange fox and this one who carried him, Aynor.
So Marcello did what any sane person would do, shifting in Aynor’s grip and putting a hand over his ear, leaning up to whisper in his uncovered ear, “Focus only on my voice, anything more and you may end up like the poor fools who’s horses ran off.” His voice was now surprisingly husky and low, a stark change from the soft tone he would regularly spoke in. One of the many gifts the cambion had come to learn and use, was the effects of a voice. Some liked a soft whispering voice, that brought to mind the feeling of lace along your skin. Others preferred a husky, deep tone, and he found that the second usually garnered a better reaction than the first. Sometimes they liked his normal tone, laced with stutters and natural, and he was usually flattered when they did.
His eyes shifted to Pentre as he whispered to Aynor, hardly concerned with the wellbeing of this man anymore. Nope, he would be sure to kiss that princess again when he saw her, hopefully right in front of that hideous man.
Aynor felt relief when Marcelo blocked the hideous sound ringing on his ears, taunting his mind and sight.
He looked on somberly as some of the less fortunate and lesser trained warriors fell for the spell rather sudden and helplessly and attacked one another or tried to flee in terror, only for Pentre himself to simply shoot them dead where they stood, taking them down with his ballista, leaving none to live to tell tales.
"Sheathe your weapons and hold your steed." barked Tron the Terrible "Next one to attack, without my given orders, will loose an arm and an eye" barked Pentre seeing a handful of men who had maimed one another for no good reason other than cowardly fear which caused him all the greater disgust.
Aynor knew Tron the Terrible much rather leave corpses behind of men who... had fallen in battle... sort to speak... than allow for the gossip of a single scallywag daring to run from duty and remain unpunished.
Aynor looked down at the husky voice, a very appealling one at that, and whispered back to the blind traveller
"If you do as told... you have nothing to fear... trying to escape would be the gravest mistake from your part. When the lord knight gives his oath to protect you from death, rest assured your life is safer than anyone else' on this party.
I have no doubt, when we enter the next city or town, the better ones are in for a good scourging and branding, and the lesser ones for torture and death or captivity to the end of their short lived days, placed in cages that dance in the wind, under the scorching midday sun and frosty nights, without space, food, water, left to rot in there for the birds to feast on their corpses.
But you... despite your deeds... you count with Pentre's protection and mine too. I can't risk that you run into harm because this wretched lord holds some of my friends at the dungeons and my failure to keep you safe will definitely cost their lives. Luckily, Pentre doesn't know about my men... yet... So... for better or worse... you are stuck by this knight's side and I am stuck by yours..." whispered Aynor carrying Marcelo close, protectively wrapped in his strong muscular arms, which made the proximity closera nd his manly urges all the worse.
Anyone who dared stare at the pair of them for all but a few moments would see the soft whispered exchanges, Aynor's blushed face and his feelings evidently exposed, for all to see, if they but glanced him head to toes once or twice, which made the ranger all the more uncomfortable.
He tried to shake such feelings and thoughts away but Marcelo's deeper voice only made matters worse for Aynor
He looked on somberly as some of the less fortunate and lesser trained warriors fell for the spell rather sudden and helplessly and attacked one another or tried to flee in terror, only for Pentre himself to simply shoot them dead where they stood, taking them down with his ballista, leaving none to live to tell tales.
"Sheathe your weapons and hold your steed." barked Tron the Terrible "Next one to attack, without my given orders, will loose an arm and an eye" barked Pentre seeing a handful of men who had maimed one another for no good reason other than cowardly fear which caused him all the greater disgust.
Aynor knew Tron the Terrible much rather leave corpses behind of men who... had fallen in battle... sort to speak... than allow for the gossip of a single scallywag daring to run from duty and remain unpunished.
Aynor looked down at the husky voice, a very appealling one at that, and whispered back to the blind traveller
"If you do as told... you have nothing to fear... trying to escape would be the gravest mistake from your part. When the lord knight gives his oath to protect you from death, rest assured your life is safer than anyone else' on this party.
I have no doubt, when we enter the next city or town, the better ones are in for a good scourging and branding, and the lesser ones for torture and death or captivity to the end of their short lived days, placed in cages that dance in the wind, under the scorching midday sun and frosty nights, without space, food, water, left to rot in there for the birds to feast on their corpses.
But you... despite your deeds... you count with Pentre's protection and mine too. I can't risk that you run into harm because this wretched lord holds some of my friends at the dungeons and my failure to keep you safe will definitely cost their lives. Luckily, Pentre doesn't know about my men... yet... So... for better or worse... you are stuck by this knight's side and I am stuck by yours..." whispered Aynor carrying Marcelo close, protectively wrapped in his strong muscular arms, which made the proximity closera nd his manly urges all the worse.
Anyone who dared stare at the pair of them for all but a few moments would see the soft whispered exchanges, Aynor's blushed face and his feelings evidently exposed, for all to see, if they but glanced him head to toes once or twice, which made the ranger all the more uncomfortable.
He tried to shake such feelings and thoughts away but Marcelo's deeper voice only made matters worse for Aynor
Can I join?
((OOC You will have to PM the RP owner... strawberry_champion ))
As the immediate chaos subsided and Tron's men made movement, the eerie sounds quieted. Not completely gone, but not as strong, either, and at least distant enough to minimize their effects on those present.
Rick hung back, getting a handle on his fear and steeling himself against the fey-touched song. Then he shifted his illusion to appear as a reddish-tan hound - a type of dog he remembered seeing the last time he'd found himself through this area. Someone nearby owned such beasts, or came to hunt here with them, and Rick planned to take advantage of that.
When the last of the humans passed back for the trail, he fell into step about 50 meters behind them. If any looked his way, he would perk his lop ears while slowly wagging his tail, then duck his head as though sheepish, tail still wagging. Going for the poor, lost pup angle.
With any luck, they'd let him follow back to town unharried and he'd have another chance at getting that pack. And maybe he'd think of some way to help along the way. As it was, he saw nothing he could do except get underfoot (or shot) and neither was appealing. Maybe he'd see something along the way he could use. Maybe he could trick the men into thinking their way was blocked. If some fey-aligned being was harassing these humans, perhaps it would take the opportunity to do some further damage. Or maybe there were more, claiming these woods for their own.
Wouldn't that be something.
As the last of the soldiers fell in line, Enri let the song trail into nothing. Act one complete, it was now time for the intermission, and he watched them marching away.
Once he was sure their attentions were firmly elsewhere, the bard slipped out of the ash tree and went to retrieve his cloak. As he donned the sumptuous cloth, movement on the road bade him pause and he turned to find a dog. His own turquoise eyes locked with its golden and there they remained for what felt like an hour. Then it wagged its tail and turned away, glancing back once or twice until it rounded a bend and could be seen no more.
When it left, Enri chewed the inside of his cheek, pondering what he'd just seen. Then he smiled.
Opportunity had just come a-knocking. So it would be rude not to answer its call.
From his travel sack, he pulled much simpler clothes than those he currently wore and swapped them. No more did he look the part of a well-to-do traveling minstrel, but that of a tousle-haired, swarthy servant. He found some good thorny brush to push through, scratching his arms and slightly tearing his clothes, and made sure to find plenty of leaves and twigs to get caught in his thick hair. Then he doubled back through the woods, taking a more direct path than the road and getting plenty muddy and sweaty along the way.
Awful, the things he did for authenticity...
In all, the trip took him a mile and a half of jogging to an earlier intersection with the path - a point that took those following the road almost three miles to reach, with how it meandered between the thicker growth on either side. And now to wait, looking appropriately forlorn from his seat on a downed tree's stump.
Rick hung back, getting a handle on his fear and steeling himself against the fey-touched song. Then he shifted his illusion to appear as a reddish-tan hound - a type of dog he remembered seeing the last time he'd found himself through this area. Someone nearby owned such beasts, or came to hunt here with them, and Rick planned to take advantage of that.
When the last of the humans passed back for the trail, he fell into step about 50 meters behind them. If any looked his way, he would perk his lop ears while slowly wagging his tail, then duck his head as though sheepish, tail still wagging. Going for the poor, lost pup angle.
With any luck, they'd let him follow back to town unharried and he'd have another chance at getting that pack. And maybe he'd think of some way to help along the way. As it was, he saw nothing he could do except get underfoot (or shot) and neither was appealing. Maybe he'd see something along the way he could use. Maybe he could trick the men into thinking their way was blocked. If some fey-aligned being was harassing these humans, perhaps it would take the opportunity to do some further damage. Or maybe there were more, claiming these woods for their own.
Wouldn't that be something.
As the last of the soldiers fell in line, Enri let the song trail into nothing. Act one complete, it was now time for the intermission, and he watched them marching away.
Once he was sure their attentions were firmly elsewhere, the bard slipped out of the ash tree and went to retrieve his cloak. As he donned the sumptuous cloth, movement on the road bade him pause and he turned to find a dog. His own turquoise eyes locked with its golden and there they remained for what felt like an hour. Then it wagged its tail and turned away, glancing back once or twice until it rounded a bend and could be seen no more.
When it left, Enri chewed the inside of his cheek, pondering what he'd just seen. Then he smiled.
Opportunity had just come a-knocking. So it would be rude not to answer its call.
From his travel sack, he pulled much simpler clothes than those he currently wore and swapped them. No more did he look the part of a well-to-do traveling minstrel, but that of a tousle-haired, swarthy servant. He found some good thorny brush to push through, scratching his arms and slightly tearing his clothes, and made sure to find plenty of leaves and twigs to get caught in his thick hair. Then he doubled back through the woods, taking a more direct path than the road and getting plenty muddy and sweaty along the way.
Awful, the things he did for authenticity...
In all, the trip took him a mile and a half of jogging to an earlier intersection with the path - a point that took those following the road almost three miles to reach, with how it meandered between the thicker growth on either side. And now to wait, looking appropriately forlorn from his seat on a downed tree's stump.
As the song began to fade, so did the strong sweet smell Marcello radiated; he was exhausted, weak from missing his chance to feed and now overusing his abilities. It's effects would linger, but at the least he wouldn't entrance others who approached him. Aynor's words made him chuckle. He was almost certain, had he tried to escape he would've succeded...he'd end up with a bounty on his head and end up exposed as a demon, but at least he'd be far away from this man Pentre, who was clearly insane. But the laughter was short lived as a wave of sleepiness overcame him, and he yawned, his eyes sliding shut.
"I'm sorry..." the cambion mumbled, resting his head on Aynor's shoulder, "I've w-worn myself out running all day...." He shut his eyes, letting out a soft sigh, "Do wake me before that Tron has a chance to lay hands on me... I don't warm beds for heathens."
Further back in the forest, another entity followed undetected. Their feet moved slowly, silently across the leaves, following the trail that led along to where the group was now departing. Across their mouth a wicked smile emerged, displaying a set of sharpened teeth.
"What a fun group we've stumbled upon."
"I'm sorry..." the cambion mumbled, resting his head on Aynor's shoulder, "I've w-worn myself out running all day...." He shut his eyes, letting out a soft sigh, "Do wake me before that Tron has a chance to lay hands on me... I don't warm beds for heathens."
Further back in the forest, another entity followed undetected. Their feet moved slowly, silently across the leaves, following the trail that led along to where the group was now departing. Across their mouth a wicked smile emerged, displaying a set of sharpened teeth.
"What a fun group we've stumbled upon."
Once Marcello had drifted off to sleep, Aynor was able to feel more in control of his feelings and thoughts and able to focus better in his actions and surroundings.
He knew he was not too far from the city by now and wondered what his fate would be upon crossing the gates, but it was better to show compliance to Pentre so he could boast about subduing the assassin than show defiance and be hunted down like a wild rabbit, a task that Tron the Terrible would do with the greatest of pleasures.
He was worn and weary of the long journey and this poor blind one needed protection, it were better for all that Aynor remained with the group and followed them to this new destination
He knew he was not too far from the city by now and wondered what his fate would be upon crossing the gates, but it was better to show compliance to Pentre so he could boast about subduing the assassin than show defiance and be hunted down like a wild rabbit, a task that Tron the Terrible would do with the greatest of pleasures.
He was worn and weary of the long journey and this poor blind one needed protection, it were better for all that Aynor remained with the group and followed them to this new destination
The sound of marching steps and hoofbeats drew him from what looked like dozing. He jumped to his feet, looking up and down the road and becoming more animated as he saw the direction from which this group was coming.
"Hail, sirs! Hail! Take pity on a weary kennel-master's servant."
On seeing whose banner they flew (metaphorically), he squeaked and dropped into a bow, sure not to block the road. "Apologies m'lord, pay me no mind. I'll not bother you with such petty concerns."
No portion of his voice or body language betrayed his deceit. For all intents and purposes, this man was as he seemed - some poor lackey sent on behalf of another to do menial leg-work out here in the woods. His simple clothes bore the mark of a nobleman whose winter home lay just outside the nearby city. Lord Senquine of Tarshr was notorious for coming in mid-fall to hunt and remaining through the winter, leaving in early spring to attend business elsewhere. His personal hounds, however, remained year-round as their coats were not designed for the climes of Tarshr.
It was also common knowledge that, bred for intelligence just as much as physical prowess, these dogs often escaped their kennels to take walks about the countryside. And just as often, they would wander far enough afield to become 'lost' for a time.
In truth, the unruly beasts were just distracted, having far too much fun tromping through field and dale and absolutely no interest in walking themselves home. But tell that to the kennel-master, whose livelihood depended on each dog safely accounted for and ready if ever the lord of the house should call. As often as a dog escaped, servants would be sent out to fetch them home.
"Hail, sirs! Hail! Take pity on a weary kennel-master's servant."
On seeing whose banner they flew (metaphorically), he squeaked and dropped into a bow, sure not to block the road. "Apologies m'lord, pay me no mind. I'll not bother you with such petty concerns."
No portion of his voice or body language betrayed his deceit. For all intents and purposes, this man was as he seemed - some poor lackey sent on behalf of another to do menial leg-work out here in the woods. His simple clothes bore the mark of a nobleman whose winter home lay just outside the nearby city. Lord Senquine of Tarshr was notorious for coming in mid-fall to hunt and remaining through the winter, leaving in early spring to attend business elsewhere. His personal hounds, however, remained year-round as their coats were not designed for the climes of Tarshr.
It was also common knowledge that, bred for intelligence just as much as physical prowess, these dogs often escaped their kennels to take walks about the countryside. And just as often, they would wander far enough afield to become 'lost' for a time.
In truth, the unruly beasts were just distracted, having far too much fun tromping through field and dale and absolutely no interest in walking themselves home. But tell that to the kennel-master, whose livelihood depended on each dog safely accounted for and ready if ever the lord of the house should call. As often as a dog escaped, servants would be sent out to fetch them home.
((OOC Whose turn is it?))
((Mine, Apologies. Getting off of work soon so I’ll write a response afterwards))
Marcello was exhausted- falling asleep took hardly a few moments, his head leaned on Aynor's chest, and occasionally his ear would twitch; some kind of dream held him. He would've stayed asleep too, were it not for the calls of what appeared to be a servant (though all he knew was someone had begun to shout)- he woke up with a start, his grip on Aynor tightening suddenly. Thankfully, with his lack of energy there would be no more pheromones produced, but to him, it was certainly not pleasant.
He listened attentively, wrinkling his nose slightly- why did this stranger smell so familiar? Had he been around them before? And what was this distant scent on the wind, something...much more ominous than humans. Marcello kept himself tucked against Aynor, "...what's going on...?"
He listened attentively, wrinkling his nose slightly- why did this stranger smell so familiar? Had he been around them before? And what was this distant scent on the wind, something...much more ominous than humans. Marcello kept himself tucked against Aynor, "...what's going on...?"
"Seems to me a stray servant who lost his way... fat chance of help is he going to get from the lord knight Pentre... he was better off staying hidden" murmured Aynor briefly describing the situation.
He was far enough behind the main procession that the stranger's words were muffled over the sounds of horses and riders. Still, the disguised fox was certain he'd heard something about a kennel. What were the odds of that, though? Probably slim.
Maybe he really did have some of that fabled luck of his brothers and grandfather. Now seemed as good a time as any for it to kick in.
When he caught up, however, he felt stupid for even considering it. There was that man from before, whom he was pretty sure had been the one weaving those enchantments. Why else would he have been lurking near the site of all that chaos, then show up again here wearing worse clothes, no less?
A soft growl escaped him, then he barked, and the man looked up. "Oh! My stars, what a boon," he laughed, surprise and relief coloring his expression, voice, and body language. But his scent held malice and glee and Rick wasn't sure which was scarier.
Indecision had his guts churning and he barked again, higher pitched this time. When the 'servant' called him over, Rick ducked his head and tail, bounding in between Pentre's men instead and doing his best to avoid being caught or kicked. The movement could easily be mistaken for a dog realizing the trouble it was in for misbehavior, but in truth Rick just wanted bodies between himself and what was clearly bad news.
Eventually, he found himself near Aynor and Marcello, still occasionally barking at the stranger.
"Ah, I am so sorry, m'lord. I swear he is usually much better behaved - I don't know what's gotten into him! Er.... May I?"
Enri gestured meekly towards the dog, as he had yet to even try actually walking towards it. Walking towards it would mean walking towards Tron's heavily armed men and that would be deadly without express permission. Although, to be fair... even coming near enough to be seen could prove deadly.
Maybe he really did have some of that fabled luck of his brothers and grandfather. Now seemed as good a time as any for it to kick in.
When he caught up, however, he felt stupid for even considering it. There was that man from before, whom he was pretty sure had been the one weaving those enchantments. Why else would he have been lurking near the site of all that chaos, then show up again here wearing worse clothes, no less?
A soft growl escaped him, then he barked, and the man looked up. "Oh! My stars, what a boon," he laughed, surprise and relief coloring his expression, voice, and body language. But his scent held malice and glee and Rick wasn't sure which was scarier.
Indecision had his guts churning and he barked again, higher pitched this time. When the 'servant' called him over, Rick ducked his head and tail, bounding in between Pentre's men instead and doing his best to avoid being caught or kicked. The movement could easily be mistaken for a dog realizing the trouble it was in for misbehavior, but in truth Rick just wanted bodies between himself and what was clearly bad news.
Eventually, he found himself near Aynor and Marcello, still occasionally barking at the stranger.
"Ah, I am so sorry, m'lord. I swear he is usually much better behaved - I don't know what's gotten into him! Er.... May I?"
Enri gestured meekly towards the dog, as he had yet to even try actually walking towards it. Walking towards it would mean walking towards Tron's heavily armed men and that would be deadly without express permission. Although, to be fair... even coming near enough to be seen could prove deadly.
Marcello shifted slightly, tugging at his pale hood and giving the air a slightly sniff; that was funny, this dog smelled awfully familiar...and so did this stranger. He frowned slightly, pursing his lips in thought for a moment.
This stranger could be bad news. He could, of course, warn the Lord Knight that he was almost certain he had picked up on this scent earlier, when the chaos had erupted among the trees...but he could also keep his mouth shut and hope the Lord Knight would get knocked down a peg or two. Pentre could spare it, that was certain.
"Don't trust that guy..." He mumbled to Aynor, his blank eyes slowly flittering around, like he could really see- in reality, he only followed voices and smells, and this was hardly an easy situation to pinpoint people. He couldn't pick Pentre out from the tens of men around them, but it made locating this stranger, Aynor, and the oddly familiar dog (he was starting to question if this thing was actually a dog) much easier. Not like he had any use for the information.
A new scent came on the wind, and Marcello sneezed. Rick could probably smell it too- the faint stink of demon, one that couldn't be coming from Marcello with his power sapped as it was. But with all this armor polish and horse stink, it was too distant to pinpoint, unless it came closer.
This stranger could be bad news. He could, of course, warn the Lord Knight that he was almost certain he had picked up on this scent earlier, when the chaos had erupted among the trees...but he could also keep his mouth shut and hope the Lord Knight would get knocked down a peg or two. Pentre could spare it, that was certain.
"Don't trust that guy..." He mumbled to Aynor, his blank eyes slowly flittering around, like he could really see- in reality, he only followed voices and smells, and this was hardly an easy situation to pinpoint people. He couldn't pick Pentre out from the tens of men around them, but it made locating this stranger, Aynor, and the oddly familiar dog (he was starting to question if this thing was actually a dog) much easier. Not like he had any use for the information.
A new scent came on the wind, and Marcello sneezed. Rick could probably smell it too- the faint stink of demon, one that couldn't be coming from Marcello with his power sapped as it was. But with all this armor polish and horse stink, it was too distant to pinpoint, unless it came closer.
((OOC - are we continuing with this RP or should we consider it dormant/discontinued??))
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