A figure draped in a garment appeared further down his path and approached him. Atop the horse, Larkspur did not fear any wolf. His mount grew uneasy at the sight of the scarred brute and moved a step away from him. Larkspur halted her and lifted his ears. The stranger’s voice was as equally gruff as his appearance, and Larkspur did not doubt that his scars were proof of battle experience. Not necessarily prowess, as he was so disfigured, but experience still. His own scars had hidden themselves under the thick pelt of his father’s breed, save the one made by the girl and her sword.
Though not because it would have been rude to continue on (Larkspur lacked tact), he stopped. The salt-and-pepper man focused his eyes on the tattered wolf and listened. It took a moment—a long moment, for which he was silent—for Larkspur to think of a response. He shook his head once. “Ahm jus’ movin’ back up t’the forest. Got holed up in the city fer a few days, tryin’ to make up for it.” The horse snorted and shifted its weight under him. “S’been a long ride, this is th’shortest way.” Simple. Simple explanations from a simple man.
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