Blackbeak Bluff La femme à la perruche

The stranger grabbed at him and pulled. The pinch of teeth did not rile a defensive posturing from him in any sense, as Ren was hardly a warrior. He was surprised by their touch just as much as he was surprised by the sea at his feet, but soon the cliff blocked his view and he was crumbling back upon the ridge, stumbling awkwardly in to the brown-pelted foreigner. He heard them speak, but it was a jumble of sounds he could barely make out. It was like the common tongue of this land, yet butchered.

The vertigo lingered for a few more moments, and Renoir braced himself against the stonework, looking about ready to heave-ho whatever lingered in his belly. He licked his lips and smiled a wide wolfish smile, having heard from one of his attendants during childhood that a grin could abate the gag reflex -- how he remembered this now was a mystery. Once the majority of the sensation had petered out, Renoir looked to the dusky creature and shook his head, chuckling softly (or perhaps he'd gone a little mad).

Mwen regrèt, I taut, I taut 'ou were an danje -- danger. Of falling. He realized as he spoke that his lungs were filled with air, a tense breath perhaps, and he let it out slowly. It is my duty to save beautiful women, but by the looks of things, he had misjudged the situation entirely. This was no beautiful woman, but a darkly coated man masquerading as such! How foolish of him, Renoir would think later. But he held a young mind - an accepting one - and did not dwell on what hung between the stranger's legs for long. It mattered little.