Ravensblood Forest the cask of amontillano

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He halts ubruptly as a shrill call interrupts the balance of opposing forces that wreck within him that had come to a standstill and he snarls, whipping his head around to meet the eyes of the one who has broken his moment of fleeting peace, livid. He was not himself, too bad, for his company was rather enjoyable if not bland under normal circumstance. However, it was not to be. “What,” He more than snaps, voice, gruff and hostile breaks the air before optics settle upon the form of a young lady, and to his suprise. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, taking in a youthfull face. Pouting face at that, but not a face he was willing to take seriously. Instead, he merely casts a rare smile; “My apologies little miss,” He bows, not out of submission and with little grace accounting for his considerably large size, and returns to his course in ease. It does not occur to the beastly man that the girl might inquire something of him, and even still, he would not care to oblige. Rollo's fealty he been pledged solely to the Ceannasach, and he holds none above, least of all would he answer to the demands of a girl just flowered into womanhood. The notion that the barbarian within him should be commanded in the way her tone held darkened his eyes, for this was not a good time to anger the man who teetered on the verge of paranoia. It was for the better that he leave the girl in the dust, for his patience was not at its finest, and neither were his manners. He was not Rollo, after all.

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