"It may," He remarks to himself when Septus rides ahead of him. Curiosity gets men killed every day, usually when they ask the wrong sort of questions. It was all fine to ask Master when they were face to face, and either be given a genuine answer or denied the truth. It was another to speculate aloud when such knowledge was above their pay grade. Regardless, he is content to find the conversation at an end, and he spurs his horse into a quicker trot. He doesn't encourage the animal into a full-out gallop, as he doesn't wish to tire it or his dogs out. He trails behind Septus throughout the ride, though the wide, straight road allows his partner to remain within his sights most of the time. 

Upon reaching the tavern, Rickard dismounts his horse and tethers it alongside his partner's. He wishes there was a livery nearby, a place to properly rest their mounts. All three of the dogs come bounding to the trough, standing on their hind legs with their front paws on the rim so they might drink from the water. The two other horses present before their arrival whinny and snort, one stomping a hoof in an agitated manner to relay her discomfort at the presence of these large beasts. Tivit looks aside at the mare and gives a short low growl before he resumes drinking alongside his brother and sister. Rickard only nods at Septus' remark as his dogs quench their thirst. When they finish, he follows the other man inside, all three dogs following in his wake.

As he enters the building, the hounds begin to tip their snouts up and scent the air. They turn their heads back and forth, scanning everything, everyone, tails stiff in the air. Though the smells and sights of the tavern try and tempt them from their master's side, they remain steadfast, only watchful.

Rickard waits patiently while Septus commands a couple rooms from the barkeep. It always amuses Rickard when his partner tries to sound kindly. It never comes out sounding natural, and sometimes Rickard things that when he tries to be mild, it comes out sounding even more cold.

There is a snicker from the back of the tavern following a very low-cast whisper. Rickard clenches one hand to a fist at his side and glances down to his dogs, who circle about his stationary form like sharks in the sea. He knows the sort of jests people make behind his back, regarding himself and his dogs. The more imaginative call him a skinwalker, an abomination that should be hunted, not the hunter. The more simple-minded insults regard bestiality. Neither have any truth, though he prefers the former rumors, as they inspire fear. The manner of which Septus asks for their rooms makes him inclined to believe whatever hushed snide remark was made, it was likely a statement along the lines of the latter. He lets it go, though. Let them make their crude jokes behind his back, he's heard them before.