@stories-in-song
For once, there was no snow or sleet as Grinnaux made his way back to the Vault, walking at a brisk pace. Under his arm was a small, unassuming parcel, wrapped in paper and tied with string. As soon as he had a moment to spare, he had set out to the Jewelled Crozier to retrieve it, as this had not been a job he’d send a squire for. Nor any of his brothers.
His expression soured at the thought of bumping into one of them on his way back, and one in particular. It was not uncommon for Charibert to lie in wait whenever one of them set out on anything that was not a mission. It seemed heretics were not the only people he enjoyed to interrogate.
Eyes focused on his goal, the golden spires of the Vault, Grinnaux did not notice there were other people about, and right in his path.
Something collided with his chest, nearly sending the parcel flying from his hold. Grinnaux’s eyes turned downwards. His annoyance turned to suspicion as he spotted the scaled horns, hand twitching as he reached for an axe that wasn’t there. Only to realise that it was not a dragon. No, it was a person with merely… draconic features. A heretic? Something in the back of his mind recalled something Haumeric had once told him, about an odd race that resembled Ishgard’s mortal enemies, but somehow fundamentally different.
The warrior narrowed his eyes, glaring at the other.
“What do you want?”
