Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180618163111

Prad's sight freezes...as well as the rets of his body. One of them, so close to him, holding a jagged claw before him, asking for something directly to him. One who's words could disarm the only bulwark between him and individual demise.

He fights it, but his body is spring every instinct regarding danger. The subtle shake of his skin filament. The twitching eyes at the grossened vision of this dragoness, twisted in exaggeration. The masked acceleration of his breathing, a body preparing in a fight or flight, the fight being pointless in his eyes.

But then, it all stops. The fear, the instincts. All of it.

Shut down.

In a series of act reminiscent of his ever drying pool of instinctual response, his eyelids lower to showcase but half of his eyes. His stance grows firm, but distant. With his free hand scrambling behind his shroud, he drives the hand holding the canteen toward Tirush.

His hand is now separate from the sought object, resonating against her claw as it fall flat on her palm. At that moment, Prad had executed a few small steps away from her and his only esteemed adviser, his body crooked slightly forward in a manner ready for a sudden movement. His other hand still hides behind his shroud, sharp and firm.

Were Praetor to gaze upon the young man, he would see '''it. It''' with a black hand of smoke and darkness, covering the eyes of Prad, gaing back at the wyvern. Its other hand clench aside the man's respective arm. A bleak return in expression seeping from its smoke-induced helmet. For but a moment, he could see it, before it fades once more.