Blackfeather Woods the song you sing is wretched and cold

The words were cold and stung plainly against The Jester's cloak, though he kept his face straight during such crucial moments. He had always been this way; thin, sickly, little to no muscle to speak of. It was both a blessing and a curse in the grand scheme of things; his health sometimes suffered, but his missions always succeeded. The young femme asked of his talents, to which he responded with a slight jig and enveloping grin, only the tips of his teeth visible against the black of his lips. I can be silent when you need; I have a knack for finding my way into places other wolves cannot.

It was his trifling appearance that gave him such leeway. The most ignorant leaders often took pity on him, allowing him into their ranks, where he would use his charisma to find what he needed and escpae before he was missed. Espionage, if you will, though I have found that to be a rather harsh term, don't you agree? The Jester sighed and returned to his submissive stance, though his eyes never fell from the deeply scored pair of his judge.