Maybe he’s just hungry. Maybe he’s just pissed. Or maybe the loneliness of this long, long walk from Caelid to Limgrave has finally caught up to him. But Creighton feels drawn towards the lonely little fire — to the warrior who sits beside it, taking a knife to the felled animal. Behind his steel-and-chain mask, the knight crinkles his nose in disapproval of the sight of kill. He likes deer, after all... She coulrn’t have chosen a less cute animal for dinner, huh? Harrumph.
“You’re makin’ a damned mess a’ somethin’ wha’ oughta be beautiful,” Creighton sneers down at her, his arms crossing as he approaches the empty campsite without so much as a glance of invitation. But he needs no friendly wave. He makes the rules, after all. And the card that’s been played right now is: if he decides he doesn’t like her, he’s gonna take that deer for himself, and carve it up proper.
Boots crinkle through the tall grass, steps equal parts playful and threatening. His arms are crossed, though — weapon holstered to his hip. He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Tha’ knife looks like it ‘asn’t been sharpened since the Shatterin’. You tryina attract harpies with all tha’ mess…?”
The warrior fell silent. Setting aside her knife, she pushed herself up onto her feet and turned, resting one hand on the hilt of her scimitar as a stranger approached.
“Well, what would you prefer? That I cook it with it’s fur still clingin’?” The warrior began with a quirk of her brow.
As the stranger neared closer, the warrior’s grip tightened.
“It obviously attracted you,” said the warrior, showing the steel of her blade; a warning that any closer, and she will draw arms.