Re: Scouting Group
Einarr’s smile was welcome and seemed genuine, and Pavak openly admired the way it lit up the Warden’s face. He was most likely straight as an arrow, and practically screamed virginal, but that didn’t have to stop an elf from dreaming, did it?
Tilting his head at Einarr’s question, he shrugged and ambled along behind the group as they forged a path through the parched crops, their movements announced by the dry rasp of leaf on stalk. “Usually sitting in a comfortable chair with a lovely Antivan whore on my lap, drinking a good glass of wine,” he said, with a cheeky wink at their leader. “Here though...” he drew in an exaggerated sigh, and blew it out through pursed lips as he studied the village they approached. The clapboard houses shone silver in the dimming light, weathered to a soft grey by the passing of time. Thatching rounded the harsh angles of their roofs where they squatted, plain and unassuming on the edge of the forest. Nearly every building was a single story, and they all were quiet and dark.
“I will be around. Here and there,”he said, pausing a moment to sweep his gaze across the other four men. “Just be sure, if you have reason to draw your weapon, that you know for sure you are swinging at an enemy,” he finished mysteriously, before peeling away from the group.
Pavak bounced on the balls of his feet a moment, sizing up the house closest to him. With an abbreviated sprint he launched himself at the wall, easily twice his height and windowless, an unbroken expanse of wood planks. Just before impact he lifted his foot and planted the ball of it high against the side of the house, jumping off the other leg and pushing himself upwards with the first. He deftly hooked a forearm over the roofline and swung his body atop the thatching, the entire movement one smooth motion that was over in a blink. Crouching carefully at the edge where he was sure the thatching was supported he surveyed the bundled straw of the roof. It wouldn’t do to go crashing into the living room of some poor farmer by misjudging the strength of this aging roof.
Up on the cottage, Pavak felt as if a band had loosened around him. Putting distance between himself and the Templar was a comfort, and he was much happier in his chosen environment. Perhaps it was the inevitable outcome of having two cat forms, and having spent so much time watching them, but Pavak always preferred having the high ground.
Slowly he crept along the edge towards the ridgeline of the house, following the logical pattern of trusses, feeling the slick bunches through the thin soles of his boots. It was precarious walking, and he took his time setting each foot down. He paused to place a hand against the rough brick of the cottage’s chimney, the rude clay cool beneath his fingers, before leaning back towards the group below. “There has not been a fire burning here in some time,” he called down softly, barely making out details of faces in the murky light from a distance. “And I cannot see any signs of people nearby, although I cannot see all that far from up here.”
Squinting against the fading light and cursing his loss of feline eyesight for the millionth time, Pavak peered around again. The rounded roofs of thatch rolled outwards towards all edges of town, but in the distance the monotony was broken up by a building that rose above the surfeit of wooden structures. “There is something to the west of us though, a building larger than the others. It looks as if it is stone too.”