[center][h1][sub][color=darkred][b][u]G O R O U[/u][/b][/color][/sub][/h1]
[h3][i][b]Bolsan[/b][/i][/h3][hr][/center]
[@Ambra]Gorou hopped off the Wyvern without hesitation, landing lightly on the balls of his feet before bending his knees to absorb the impact. His first few steps had that wide, awkward gait to them as was normal for someone who had spent a long time on the back of a mount, but he soon shook his legs out and seemed to recover. It wasn't that he had any long term experience with riding like Rhea and the others did, simply that he was flexible and fit enough that his muscles could take the strain and wouldn't be sore for long. They headed for a tavern past a small marketplace. Was this to be their refuge for the night, or were they just going to get a meal before continuing on? It was only midday, after all, there was still plenty of time to travel. But then, a gaggle of fellows who seemed to have had their fill of the local liquor began causing some kind of ruckus with a shopkeep. Rhea approached without hesitation, and Gorou followed behind her as silently as a shadow. 

She took a step forward, grabbing hold of Icarus' reigns and tugging him closer to the unfolding scene in front of her. The drunkards were surprised at her advance, but, seeing as they had greater numbers, did not scuttle back into tavern-- even at the sight of a beast as large as Icarus. "Is there an issue here?" Rhea demanded. The group of men exchanged looks with one another before the leader, a burly man with a sweaty mustache, curled his lip at her.

"Ain't no issue that pertains to you, lass," he slurred at her, his right hand toying with the hilt of the sword at his waist. Her eyes remained on his face, watching the other men fidget apprehensively behind their leader. 

One of the other drunkards, a thin man with bloodshot eyes, pointed his sword at Icarus. Rhea's shoulders stiffened at the motion, and she heard the wyvern rumble lowly in a dangerous growl. "You thinks that you can scare us by bringin' yer monster on a leash? Big mistake!"

"A man shouldn't draw a sword lest he be ready to die with it in hand." Gorou stepped out from Icarus's flank, and boldly stood right in front of the drunk man, close enough that the blade he had pointed at the dragon was now mere inches from Gorou's own neck. The bandit, his already flushed face growing redder, started to say something...then he stopped, his pupils shrinking as his mouth moved without any sound. It was as if some invisible force had grabbed him by the throat.

There is a "sense," of sorts, that goes beyond the physical body's capability to perceive its surroundings. It is the sense that animals seem to possess naturally, though beasts of prey are more equipped to receive it while the predator emits it. It is the reason why the antelope will suddenly lift its head from the watering hole, even though it can't see the lion crouching in the grass. Humans could still feel this sense, though it was diluted; with training, however, it became much more clear to them. It was the feeling a guard might have, that he was being watched even though he had no knowledge of the assassin aiming an arrow at him from afar. It was the feeling an experienced warrior had when he felt an attack coming at him from a blind spot, and reacted to block or dodge it without conscious thought.

The old clans called it "Sakki," and in the modern tongue it was simply "Killing Intent."

It rolled off Gorou now, a complete and utter shift from the calm, composed, polite man Rhea had spent several hours riding with. It was not anger, nor was it condescension; it was simply a fact, a testament that Gorou could and would take a life right here and right now. It was directed solely at the man holding the sword, but it was so potent everyone who had any experience with life or death battle could feel it like a knife poised over their own heart. Thus, for that singular man, it had to be like staring down a lion with its fangs bared and knowing that whether you choose to fight or run, you will still die with absolute certainty.

Gorou's hand was on his own weapon, but not the hilt--he merely held the scabbard below where the handguard sat upon it. And it was his left hand, not the right which would have been used to actually draw the weapon. He wasn't even in a fighting stance--he stood completely relaxed, even nonchalant. 

Yet looking at the cold, expressionless mask was like looking at the skeletal face of Death.

"Put it away." he told the drunkard.