The mere bout of question that rises to the surface causes that invading shadow to retreat, to scurry back to the form it belonged to; disappearing completely before it is again back in its proper place, casting a shade of a heavily armored form. Silence is all that is given as the corpse stares, wide-eyed and questioning, as if unsure as to why he approached the Commander to begin with. Of course, that was not quite the case–…he had traveled to a neighboring Empire, and it seemed only custom now to meet with fellow protectorates, to at least exchange know of ‘least he become a ghost in their presence.
Marred ears pivot, twitch, and then lay back akin to a feline who has caught the scent of something they did not enjoy, who would spit and howl at the unpleasant presence. Yet, he does neither, not a sound to follow–not even a grunt or grumble, but merely a look given, something unpleasant flickering through writhing, blue hues.
With a jolt do rigid arms raise, gloved fingers curled as if to loosen the joints, and then, he signs; motions rough and quick, uncaring almost in the way he fits silent speech in the air.
Hands then still, and eyes narrow onto the dragon-bound, as if a wrong answer could cause the man to strike, to lunge like a crouching lion ready for a kill. He is not kind in the way he looks, and he is not kind in the way he ‘talks’, and certainly, he is not kind in the way he writhes; form twitching once, twice, and then, it stills again.
He wouldn’t openly admit so, but seeing those shadowy tendrils retreat toward their owner allowed prior tenseness to marginally lessen. Until he could decipher their intent, and only until then, he would remain cautious, and respectively so. He had learned quickly in his youth that rank was not a total indicator for strength, and battle held no bias toward it. It was quite simply a designation then.
He narrowed his eyes in response to the slight change in the other’s gaze. He had no intention to start a brawl here in the middle of civilian streets, but he would not cower in the face of a threat, unspoken as it was. Then something unexpected happens when the Knight raises his arms to move them in a curt series of motions that immediately sparks recognition. Sign language. Something he had drilled into his head years ago when he had encountered soldiers, that for their personal reasons, used it as a primary method of communication.
He felt it only appropriate to learn as well. It proved not only useful in speaking with those that couldn’t or chose not to, but in instances where silent communicating had been integral to avoid detection. It seemed that knowledge would come in handy now with the Knight. Raising his own arms, he signs back, slow at first and then picking up pace as the motions are remembered with more clarity,
“Yes, I understand,” and then fingerspells, “P-L-A-G-U-E-D-R-I-N-K-E-R”. Sure, he could have verbalized the response, but he figured it better to prove so, believing actions to be louder than words in this instance. Lowering his hands, he then switches back to speaking, “What brings you to Ciravus? I was not notified to be expecting an envoy from Melcio. Unless,” He pauses and lets a bit of disbelief color his next words, “You are here for your own personal reasons?”
