He has no argument to offer. No stern words intended to dissuade what her mind sets itself to. All he offers is a shift to fall in behind her, resting the sack of supplies he carries atop Loghain’s already burdened back (a dutiful creature ever, Gabranth finds he favors it more than the others he’s met in this world), as they press off the beaten path into darkened fog.
For it, Gabranth draws his short sword from his hip, grip held in reverse, letting it drag along the trees to mark their way.
Again. The shriek cuts through the air, hissing echoing in its wake. If it is mortal in its make, then it is no child of man— and for that, as the air begins to stink of rotting iron, Gabranth keeps his posture at the ready.
Beneath tangles of twisted roots, slain bodies (Venatori spies, the papers they’d been ferrying scattered and soaked through with mud) rest laid out in the muck as though part of the forest itself.
no subject
For it, Gabranth draws his short sword from his hip, grip held in reverse, letting it drag along the trees to mark their way.
Again. The shriek cuts through the air, hissing echoing in its wake. If it is mortal in its make, then it is no child of man— and for that, as the air begins to stink of rotting iron, Gabranth keeps his posture at the ready.
Beneath tangles of twisted roots, slain bodies (Venatori spies, the papers they’d been ferrying scattered and soaked through with mud) rest laid out in the muck as though part of the forest itself.