@fortunca
Wolf snarls into Lamb’s ear. “This place smells disgusting.”
“Hush now, Wolf,” Lamb says to him, putting a single, silver hand atop his bristling head. “We have work here.”
Wolf makes another disgruntled growl as the smell of rotting fish and seawater assaults his nose, but his hackles lower nonetheless. He drifts around Lamb as she skips from post to post, roof to roof, in long, graceful bounds. She hums a tuneless tune and her bow swings absently at her side. When they arrive at their location at last, the Kindred slip onto Bilgewater's stone street, the incidental sea water and ale doing nothing to wet Lamb's hooves.
"Where's our prey?" Wolf's tongue lolls out in anticipation, and Lamb quietly crouches in place, eyes watchful.
"Patience, dear Wolf."