Way up in a nearby tree, a young parrot balanced himself on his wrists and clutched a branch in his claws like a monkey, a position that would be uncomfortable for most but that he was perfectly adept at. His bright red feathers and an occasional rustling of the wings where all that gave him away, otherwise he seemed more at ease in the tree then he would have been on the ground. He also couldn't help himself from making the occasional inquisitive click or whistle- long ago this had been the way his people had communicated, and although they had more civilized language now, it was a habit that was hard to break when one had little else to do. 

Macbeth listened closely to the Boulder's interpretation of the plan, soaking in every ounce of information and committing it to memory. It was easier for him to listen then read the plans themselves, because he still wasn't quite familiar with the script in this part of the kingdom. It was vernacular, the writing of peasants, and very different then the stuffy, ancient tongues he'd grown up reading from. In times past he would have thought that to be vulgar and not befitting of him, but political correctness was something that he'd had to learn to live without, otherwise it would have gotten him killed ages ago. When the panda was done laying out their plan, he climbed down from the tree to meet with the others. 

"No." He paused a moment, thinking he was forgetting something. "...Sir."

That still didn't come easy.