Raven's Watch palid face of the unchildlike child

Impassive and forever on edge, Stjornuati watched the both of them with cold, dark eyes; observing, gauging, calculating. As if by magic, the thorns of these blossoms grew wickedly long and sharp, brandishing their weapons as though he had come to threaten their existence. There was a chance, of course, that he had; the Watch was theirs, after all — his — though there was no official name they ran under. It was where his family, those both of womb and of covenant, lay their heads to sleep and he would allow no harm to befall them.

The pair had given him no reason to show agression, their eye contact and vocal demands of him not enough to ruffle feathers or fur, and so, he kept it all within; jaws parted to respond, though he paused a moment as a raven cawed above them. It was in their own language -- and his! -- that carried his words. Stjörnuáti af Stormskýli. Not many this far souuth speak the language of my people. For Tartok was his people just as much as Stormhaven was. Where do you hail from?