It would have been a mistake to assume that Charlie was not well rounded or cultured in the different wonders and diverse ways of the world. His father took his sons on as many tedious meetings and gatherings that time & travel would allow. Still, Charlie stood so simple here; off white tunic tucked into black riding pants, cuffed brown boots caked in mud and whatever else was married to the ground. The three other Riders near him wore similar attire, showing off the practicability his namesake was known for. Overcoats were bundled neatly in their saddles packs along with whatever other supplies they needed. The group was traveling light today, showing that they didn’t plan to be on the road much longer.
There was no edge of offensive on Charlie’s face when Dorian spoke, dark eyes speculating over the sprinkling weather. Live and let live while lending along the way. His father’s words set heavy and still in his mind. Charlie didn’t have much time to think of a response because the redheaded rider afar quipped in, blue eyes and eyebrows raised as his hands worked on dissembling his tack as fast as possible.
“What, you got places to be, fancy pants?” the so called redheaded… Red said, girth slipping away from his steed’s stomach, “We got our own little birdies and none of ‘em said anything about dangerous roads. This is the best path we were told to take,” Red’s tone wasn’t exactly suspicious but pessimistic. His copper curls were frayed because of the humidity and his expression was haughty.
“Red,” Charlie would say in a specific sense and the Rider staved off a bit, “It’s a small delay. We will still meet up with Brindleback tonight. We knew the weather would start like this mid-afternoon,” Charlie reasoned, not skirting around names or locations in front of this stranger mage.
“Join us if you want; we’re not fighters by any means,” Charlie offered to Dorian, “But we always get to where we need to go, Maker allow it or not.
A smile formed, quite relaxed though it never reaches the Pavus’ eyes, still tight with scrutiny on the man that bequeathed fancy pants upon his assortment of titles. Dorian tipped his head, looking at Red with thinly veiled impatience and practiced, masterful timbre somewhere between grateful and chastising.
“To start, these are my most practical trousers. The fancy ones would most certainly blind you with all its trappings.”
Behind his easy words, his skin prickles. The latent energy of magic still clinging to the air about him, an anxious and familiar effect fresh after a fight. That, and all this dubious lying. If Dorian withholds this threat from these men, who claim to be too peaceful for violent matters, he could very well be the reason they are unprepared for battle.
“...Giving it a second thought,” he says with a dismissive flick of his fingers, a sudden change of heart from all his griping mere moments ago. “The rain might dilute all these ... mm, natural smells.” He turned from them, as a noble might dismiss its help. They needed to be gone, although they yet know it. He would see that it happens, he could only hope that it was before they were discovered. “Maker forbid you meet any unsavory strangers, you will be glad I happened upon you.”
A breath, then turning, Dorian turned an curious finger to Charlie’s emblem. “You say you are not fighters, yes? What did you say you were?”
