The figure doesn’t move right away, letting only the wind shift their cloak around them. They’d gotten a good look at the man back at the carnival, had a chance to observe him along this long, lonely trek. He’s not a threat. He’s a mark, an easy one. Without a word, they step forward, stepping perfectly into the footprints Falke left behind.
“Give me your things.” The demand comes in a low, young voice, no room spared for argument. Within the hood a pair of eyes flash, the cloak shifting as a hand tipped with claws and short tawny fur lifts in the space between them, a more implicit threat than simple words could ever hope to be.
“Give me your things.” The demand comes in a low, young voice, no room spared for argument. Within the hood a pair of eyes flash, the cloak shifting as a hand tipped with claws and short tawny fur lifts in the space between them, a more implicit threat than simple words could ever hope to be.
