As the thing the feral practitioner revered, "The Red" had a tendency to seemingly appear and disappear at whim; an elusiveness to him that carried with going unobserved for any time, not by magic but by the talent of observation and instinct. Far from difficult to see among the common folk as they desperately attempted to go about some semblance of normalcy in the wake of the dark assault on this morning, the man preferred to take the routes less traveled and reveal himself only in crossing. Were they alleys blocked by debris or by shady, loitering occupants, it made no difference and he stalked through them all the same in this manner, wholly unaccosted. Be them miscreants or the homeless, they clung closer to the remaining wood and stonework when he drew near - their eyes shining with a disposition of discomfort and unease.

From about a corner peered the muzzle of his hood; his fierce stare concealed beneath her embrace.

The lady of shadows seemingly led three more who walked a short ways behind her, of whom seemed to be enthralled in conversation and gesture... barring the guardsman, who merely kept an ever attentive eye on it all. In this time, she turned away from them in an air of irritation; the blacksmith's post abandoned, its forges cold, and its steel mostly pillaged. The front's owner, likely slain or missing in the attack, was nowhere to be seen. It was at this point the woman, with axe slung, drifted from sight and left the three to themselves.

The gnome, the guardsman and this "Hellene" had come to a rest - gesturing forth and back toward their finer, more complicated weaponry. Their behavior seemed to compare the two - the crossbow to the flintlock weapons - but "The Red" only pondered as to why. Both things were unwieldy, heavy and complicated, prone to malfunction and of unusual rarity. Either way, the conversation kept them preoccupied and at least temporarily unaware of their observer.

It did however, bring to mind "The Red" and his relationship with these exotic tools of conflict, to which he recalled were of ill reception. A mere man could be disarmed of any weapon he bore, even the aged scimitar the savage himself carried, but something that could not be so readily stripped was the weapon that was the body; that even the bare hand, lacking in the deadly refinement that was claws, could strike with such force that men fell prey to it. It was a quality that had to be honed, like any other, but proved versatile as any master of the mundane and magical martial arts could speak to, albeit these legendary men "The Red" knew not - just that they both shared the same understanding, albeit of vastly different approach.

Regardless, all seemed well enough and the time the woman had presented was limited.

Shifting slightly beneath his cowl, he removed himself from his concealment and proceeded down the muddied, still turned street. Despite his internal eagerness to be free of these confines of civilized men, this town, he carried himself as largely indifferent as he could, feigning disinterest to them. In doing so, he parted the street and kept pace toward the three - subconsciously placing his foot fall in those tracks already worn into the path.

He neared at last, coming to a rest but just outside arm's length of Ionathan, whilst listening to both Tirrarian and Ioannes with ears keened but of no verbal announcement that he had returned; he assumed the aura that came with him on a spiritual and psychological level, in addition to his actual physical presence, were more than enough.

[@The Fated Fallen][@IcePezz][@Letter Bee][@Jon Y]