He’d spent the earlier portion of the evening chatting to Aspel, and by the time Rictor disengaged, he immediately started casting through the crowds searching for his other sister. He knew Seloria would be making an appearance tonight (of course she would), though he hadn’t heard who her date would be. So the man stood on tiptoe, peering past noble after noble as he searched for a distinctively tiny, white-blonde figure. Every time someone seemed to try to stop him for conversation, he made a polite noise and extracted himself, resuming his questing expression: lightly expectant, distracted, still trying to find her.
And when he finally did – and recognised the boy in the awkward-looking suit beside her – Rictor’s jaw practically dropped.
Target acquired.
After a pause in which he processed this latest bit of information, a wolfish grin flickered across the knight’s face. Then he managed to scrub it away, leaving only an indomitable deadpan behind, a stony expression of displeasure (and if it was somewhat feigned, then so be it—this would be fun).
Rictor started striding across the room, easily elbowing his way past yelping partygoers as he bore down on Conan Helmm-Deirgard like an oncoming train, like the physical embodiment of the wrath of Faram.
The squire tensed upon sensing the eyes of a hunter that has spotted its meal, an animal instinct driving him to the fight or flight mechanism. His jaw slacked, though still close to smiling as he turned around to find the reason for his goosebumps. And then he saw.
Frantically, Conan shoved his half-eaten quiche back onto a passing server’s tray to free his arms for a dignified response. Yet his knees buckled, his throat tightened, his pupils dilated.
Conan moved with no such ease as the seasoned fighter did. No lion’s bravery here. Tonight, he was a only a lamb, only prey.
He choked out a half-greeting, a half-joke in a voice too low for anyone to hear. When he regained control of his extremities, the squire poured all his energy, all his failed training lessons, into running as fast as he could from the fighter—the Korporal, the hellhound—the one he hoped not to know as “the Deirgard squire’s murderer.”
Guests chided the young boy as lanky arms spread out on either side of him, flailing to clear a path for him to flee.