Revenge was immature. Juvenile. Petty, as it were. But Innes cannot help the need for vengeance that overwhelms him when he spots a head of red hair, the prince still irritated by the humiliating show the young mage had put him through the other night. So he crouches behind the bushes with a bucket of ice water, waiting for Ewan to pass before jumping out and assaulting him with cold, watery doom.
Humming as he walks along, Ewan carries his own bucket still in one hand, though the other holds one of them newfangled pistols he’s seen everyone toting. He can’t wait to try it out on someone, honestly, see if his hand eye coordination as far as throwing stuff goes extends to aiming with this, too - it’s just a matter of finding the right target, first.
For a moment, as he catches a flash out of the corner of his eyes, he thinks he’s found it --
Ewan rolls a 4! Dodge/total miss!
but one has to know when to fold, and more important to him than soaking Innes (right this moment anyway) is Not Being Soaked By Innes, and with a startled woop! and a chortle, Ewan skips back out of harm’s way. He gives Innes a wink and blows him a kiss before turning quick on his heels, abandoning his bucket in favour of mobility. “I guess I was wrong the other day about your aim, good Prince,” he teases as he makes his departure, already hastening to safety - to the caves the Deer had set up camp in.