The cover of early morning darkness and its ambiance among the wounded city failed to bear witness to something most characteristically out of place as it crept among what shadows it could follow. Upon thick, wide feet, it carried itself akin to a whisper in the storm, leaving not a sound and hardly a trace. Dawn was soon, so soon that the horizon far off had begun to ease itself into a deep violet shade from its formerly darker tones. It was for this reason - that mere men would soon be awake - that the sleek pantherine form moved as ably as it did; building to building, ruin to ruin, shadow to shadow. There was little difficulty in remaining so concealed at this hour as it was despite its great size, for it not only could smell the watchmen before they could even know the beast, but the obscuring darkness was no friend to those without eyes of night.

At times it varied its travel, climbing with a single bound across the sturdy wood and stone framework to bypass those places upon the ground where there was no safety.

Landing one last time from atop a structure into an alleyway, the ebon paws fluidly traded themselves for the familiar worn gloves of the man known better by his deeds than by his name. "The Red", man once more, slowly standing from his low crouch in the alley, rubbed the dry ash covered dirt between his fingers. He had slept well - or at least as well as he could with the thought of demons free upon the world once again - this past night, but not here; outside the now battle-worn walls of Waeldeshore. No friend of this "cage", the stone walls and wooden buildings, there was little chance he could have rested; the sensation of being at danger's mercy too strong here.

Breathing deep, relaxing for a moment, "The Red" rubbed the ash laden dirt until all of it siphoned from between his fingers as sand would from a shattered hourglass. Here he closed his eyes, bringing his hands no higher than his torso; with a few simple, refined gestures, he distributed the very essence of his primal soul; like a refined weapon, each simple drawing motion was committed and faint ghostly wakes of white carried behind them before fading like mist. The [i]essentia[/i] that augmented his magical aptitude found itself carefully channeled into two aspects more than any; the very nature of his bestial form, with its claws and fangs made more terrible, and his regenerative magic made more potent.

It was at this point, piercing eyes open once more, he struck out from the alley to the last, largest remaining inn of Waeldeshore... the "Crazy Cat Inn".

Although the name was unknown to him, the landmark and earth upon which it sat had been committed to memory from the day prior; the first rays of dawn's light breaking through night's hours, he would soon arrive to his destination at exactly the time he intended. Each carefully laid step "The Red" took left the imprint of his well worn, but sizable boots. There was no need to conceal himself now - anyone out at this hour to see a man cloaked in the fierce visage of a mighty lioness brandishing an aged scimitar was not going to prove dangerous unless they were part of this expedition. So he instead opted to give off a sense of deterrence with his mere presence as he came about to face the inn.

Punctual, for a mystic barbarian, but likely more honoring his own word than anything, the beastly man approached.

Admiring the morning sun was the woman from before, a cup perched upon the window behind her, and the younger sword-bearing man as well. They were engaged in some seemingly idle conversation, having not been awake for too long, but awake long enough to interact with one another. Issuing the pair a subtle nod, the savage stopped but just over the reach of a man's grasp away, not for lack of trust but for innate comfort; the advantage of having distance was a thing required when dealing with men. It was during this time he sized both up, with a long, thoughtful look.

The woman was lithe in form, but toned enough in quality that she certainly had some sort of martial history, as the axe she carried inferred as well; she was not one of the feeble common things that darted from market to market here. There was however, something more to her than just mundanity - "The Red" knew it by the feeling of unease he received internally about her capability, but whatever it was, nothing was clear. Isabeau was suited, in the primalist's eyes, for these tasks... after all, she did at least survive her initial confrontation with the forces of evil, that much was certain.

As for the man?

The disorderly black hair, bright blue eyes, and distinctive mark upon his forehead - almost a third eye it would seem - along with his compliment of the locket around his neck made him another distinctive figure. There was little doubt in the mind of the man that he was partial to the sword, having a new, untested blade across his back; the leather of its scabbard and sling not yet worn, cracked or warped, let alone scratched. This would... suffice as well, he reasoned for the mark upon the young man suggested that was not the only quality he bore.

"I assume there are others to arrive." "The Red" mentioned with his characteristic rumbling growl, looking about slowly then back upon both Isabeau and Siegfried.

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