08-26-2015, 06:53 PM
The roan stallion is almost absent-minded in his attention towards him, something he would not have thought a diplomat seeking their favor would be. It takes him a moment to even glance up at him. The delay causes one brow to tilt up, his only reaction to the visitor’s distracted mien as he lifts his gaze. The flinty cast to his features, nor the easy way in which he composes himself shows any further hint of opinion.
A strong gust of wind whips across the flat expanse, snaring manes and tangling tails, leaving a distinct chill on the skin. He wonders then how the newcomer fares in their frigid clime. Not that he would stoop to ask. The man had chosen, of his own free will, to venture into their frozen northlands. In any case, he might even benefit from exposure to the harsh climate. And, if nothing else, he would have an experience to share with the rest of his kingdom once he returned to his no doubt more temperate home.
Before the stallion has a chance to introduce himself, Hurricane notices Crito approaching. Excellent. Someone less likely to offend the poor bastard than he. His honesty, one of the very qualities that define him is also one of the qualities that make him a poor diplomat. Not that honesty is a bad trait in a diplomat, more that his honesty combined with his lack of regard for other’s feelings makes it a particularly bothersome trait when the goal is flattery. Or, at the very least, not offending the other party.
The roan introduces himself them, informing them in a rather roundabout way of who he is and from whence he hails. Dark gaze flicking back to the stallion, he studies him closely for a brief moment. Last he had heard, Tiphon had been the Dale’s king. Although, from the sounds of it, this Ramiel is Tiphon’s son, so the ascension is unsurprising.
So, the Dale has changed hands. Good to know.
He pauses then, as though processing the information, before answering Weir’s question. His expression, however, remains as stony as ever.
We serve under Errant.
He would let Crito handle the question-asking. That is his forte, after all.
A strong gust of wind whips across the flat expanse, snaring manes and tangling tails, leaving a distinct chill on the skin. He wonders then how the newcomer fares in their frigid clime. Not that he would stoop to ask. The man had chosen, of his own free will, to venture into their frozen northlands. In any case, he might even benefit from exposure to the harsh climate. And, if nothing else, he would have an experience to share with the rest of his kingdom once he returned to his no doubt more temperate home.
Before the stallion has a chance to introduce himself, Hurricane notices Crito approaching. Excellent. Someone less likely to offend the poor bastard than he. His honesty, one of the very qualities that define him is also one of the qualities that make him a poor diplomat. Not that honesty is a bad trait in a diplomat, more that his honesty combined with his lack of regard for other’s feelings makes it a particularly bothersome trait when the goal is flattery. Or, at the very least, not offending the other party.
The roan introduces himself them, informing them in a rather roundabout way of who he is and from whence he hails. Dark gaze flicking back to the stallion, he studies him closely for a brief moment. Last he had heard, Tiphon had been the Dale’s king. Although, from the sounds of it, this Ramiel is Tiphon’s son, so the ascension is unsurprising.
So, the Dale has changed hands. Good to know.
He pauses then, as though processing the information, before answering Weir’s question. His expression, however, remains as stony as ever.
We serve under Errant.
He would let Crito handle the question-asking. That is his forte, after all.
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane