Wild Berry Meadow pestilence-stricken multitudes

He recognizes the sound of the approach, a familiar one by now. Daighre, the man seemingly soul-bound to him by sickly grey-green threads of fate. Zephyr is beyond being disturbed by this, so he simply turns to greet him, expression neutral. The word entourage sparks some mild confusion in him, the slight lift of an eyebrow. They aren't my friends, He offers the explanation as if they're out having lunch and he's telling Daighre what the special of the day is. He might as well be, for all it means to him. We made a deal. I kept my end of it. They found other ways to betray me. He doesn't elaborate. You know what I like about you, Daighre? No surprises. You're very consistent. It's actually a compliment, though it might not be from anyone other than Zephyr. He means it, though, for what little it's worth.