[center][color=#008b8b][h2]Fionn MacKerracher[/h2][/color][/center]
[hr][@Octo]
[hr]

As the rest of the group deliberated over their options and placement, Fionn stood off to the side, the fingers of one hand drumming against his thigh while the other still held his sword loosely—now returned to its normal size. Short of 'be fast about it' there wasn't much else he could supply to the planning; much like what Gerard was suggesting, he was more suited to fighting than he was to any other strategy at king of the hill. Unconsciously, his hand shot forwards, grabbing Gertrude by the wrist before she could condescendingly pat their captain's head.

[color=#008b8b]"None of that,"[/color] he chided, resisting the fleeting urge to crush down on her wrist for her continuing disrespect. Or to say a few words and grow out claws to cut into her pale skin like one of Fiadh's Dernyar cousins in the mountains back home; no, that would be too much, especially after she [i]had[/i] just been helpful in the fight against the Talderians. [color=#008b8b][i]Claws, though...[/i][/color]

Giving into protective instincts like the Senyar did or being as belligerent as a Dernyar knocked off a cliff may not be the solution to every problem, but a bit of primal savagery every now and then never hurt things too much either. Fionn didn't release his grasp, although he did relax it considerably, facing Gertrude—for once—with a smile.

[color=#008b8b]"I might have an idea for how you can help after all. Think you and that broom would be able to carry me?"[/color]