Two Rivers Isle the art of survival

"every shadow is a tool," the centurion responded, shoulders losing some of their tension as he pulled from the obscurity in the woman's direction. now that he had heard her voice, he set it with the lithe sight of a body honed from scouring in allweather terrain. 

conditioned to assess each stranger as appeasement for his own sense of warning, the centurion did not find himself immune to vague admiration. he had halted a polite distance away, but what tinge of the huntress' scent he had caught brought germanicus to mind of arlette. they shared the same pack, so it seemed. the saints of the dying light. or, as the alabaster acolyte had said, simply the saints.

"would you care for a companion on your hunt?" the eaglebound intoned solemnly. eyes the color of a sword-edge, gleaming iron against the nightcast of her features.