Blackfeather Woods where it all goes down

Argent cannot help the slight wry turn of his lips at Cicero's comment. He is not the first to point out that visually the titan does not blend with the forest. That the sneak might be making a joke goes over his head, but since he has no way to rectify his genes, he doesn't comment but merely waits for the other to continue with actually useful advice. 

Light on ones feet. Sensible. His gait is not exactly thunderous, but he walks with heft (his size, perhaps, another disadvantage). "I see," he murmurs, and adjusts his pace beside Cicero, attempting to match his lighter pace. It feels a bit clumsy. "This is what you do," he asks, watching the smaller man with a measured sort of interest.