-- “We all have old men mentors, watch your fucking mouth.”
Still somewhat on edge, Montague was quick to interject those words, bitingly sharp and wrapped in a not-so-subtle know-it-all cadence, after Amycus’ lightly provoking remark. As his friend’s head turned to scan their whereabouts in one direction, as if sensing and knowing instinctively it was his place to assist, Emory’s head turned in the other direction so that he could do the same thing; brown eyes burned holes into what was close and far from the two of them for a good five seconds, before he was confident enough to turn back to his bleeding confidant, satisfied enough that they weren’t able to be heard or otherwise noticed. It was hardly a situation suitable for a lengthy discussion, Emory recognised this, but if they were quick and clever about it, none would be the wiser -- not when there were bigger things to worry about.
“Where are the women?” Emory asked with little concern in his voice -- apart from Julianne and his distant Macnair relatives, the crisis was, to him, a relatively distant one. He took a respectable step back as Amycus came forward, and though his head took on a contemplative cant, he did not appear too tempted. Not yet, anyway. “There’s no one for me to fight to kill here?” A hiss of mild disappointment came from the back of his throat. “The fuck are you supposed to be doing right now? Apart from talking to the enemy.”
He kept his voice low, of course -- and his wand threateningly pointed toward Amycus, so if one were to glance over for any reason at all, there would seem to be nothing amiss. “Right. Good. I need it too much.” His free hand gestured blandly toward his crotch and sarcasm dripped into his voice, “I have bastards to make.”