Arrow Lake ou l'Optimisme

Certainly! My apologies for forgetting.

The game is, in fact, not afoot. His expression sours at her response; it is like squeezing blood from a stone, and he has better things to do. (He doesn't, but that's not relevant.) Ears folding backward, he lets out a quiet snort, a wordless answer to her request.

Merci beaucoup, la voyante, Donatien says sardonically, rolling his eyes. He seizes the rabbit between his teeth and drags it away, slowly, the corpse sliding along the dirt. He keeps his gaze upon her, stepping backwards. More, more, more—

And his ankles hit the water, and he stops. He gives her a smile from afar and lifts his leg, sending a stream of urine spattering upon her kill. 

The vultures could have it. He cares not.

Donatien du Pont moves on, keeping one purple orb trained on her receding form. She may not be a woman of true magic, but he'd learned not to trust seers. Hell, he barely trusted himself.

Onward.