[center][h2]Roane[/h2][/center]

Roane grimaced as Lyth recklessly bounded to the outlaw's platter, bumping into and startling those in his way. With as much shame as a hungry wyvern could muster--which wasn't very much in the first place--he began to scarf up the meats with gluttonous joy. A low groan crawled out of Roane's throat as she stared in dismay.

"Gods, Lyth, have a bit of decency," she grumbled, though the wyvern barely paid attention. "There's royalty present! Lyth..."

With an apologetic smile, she maneuvered her way through the gathered fighters, muttering, "Sorry," and "Pardon," all the while. At last she made her way to her companion, the platter before him completely clean of crumbs and all. She gave Taka a small smile and wave, the beginnings of another apology on her tongue before the Outlaw headed away for more food. Her smile dropped and she cast Lyth a scolding look, only to be met with the draconic equivalent of a careless shrug. Roane rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched upwards her so slightly.

However, the smile dropped as a creaky voice carried around the bonfire. A cloaked figure stood by, his black robes faintly illuminated orange by the flickering light of the flames. His face was somber, his ominous words bringing little comfort to the already anxious wyvern rider. Lyth stopped, lifting his head and moving his tail almost protectively around Roane. A low growl, just loud enough for only Roane to hear, rumbled in his throat. Roane laid a gentle hand on his hide, the knot in her stomach tight. 

"Pardon me, Sir," she called hesitantly with a small bow, "but who are you? Were you called as well?"