Felltree Marsh the reds are coming

He hears the other male inhale Alduin’s own scent and he flicks his eyes down to flaring nostrils for a half a second. Following the line of his muzzle back up to his eyes and further to the scar on the man’s cheek. 

So he has seen battle then? That’s good. He thinks.

Perhaps if Alduin were to fight him he would offer a bloody challenge and a few more scars to add to his already healthy collection of new and old. Yet, despite the hellhound’s seemingly constant thirst for blood, he wants to see how this plays out — this unsaid understanding between two strangers. Still, he wants to know how he fights — he can’t help it. It’s in his blood, it’s in his upbringing training — it’s what he’s been taught to do since he could walk.

Yet, he still searches this familiarity that settles in this stranger’s dark complexion. Why does he seem familiar at all? Does his mind play tricks on him? Alduin knows of his rotting brain and it’s uselessness at certain times when it’s most inconvenient, but, more so, he wonders — knows — that he’s going insane. His deteriorating sanity is a constant chain around his neck and the other half is held tightly in Banesteppe’s hand. All Alduin can do is beg for mercy, but he knows he will not get it unless he obeys the ghostly slave driver. 

So when he gets a simple no in return, Alduin hums a low response back. It’s a neutral type of noise meant to show acknowledgment that’s he’s heard him, but give nothing more. 

But he does get something else back: a name. 

This man calls himself Ratio. Alduin tests it in his head a few times, again, searching for that ever lingering thought of familiarity, but of course gets nothing in return.

Alduin would hum again, a sound deep, short, and curt before giving his own name. “Malacath.” He offers back simply. His raspy voice doesn’t rush the word out, but rather says it slowly and surely. 

After though, he begins a slow walk around the dark male. His posture is not threatening — he’s merely looking. Taking in all those scars and the powerful prowess the panther-like man has. He wants to see what he’s got.

“Do you fight, Ratio?” He almost purrs out the words — his voice guttural and rolling. His tone does not match his expression. For his visage is usually settled in a neutral scowl, though now his bloody eyes gleam with muted interest.