[center][h1][color=80DEEA]Nethruel[/color][/h1][/center][hr] Despite being assigned to guard this caravan, Nethruel seemed to be occupied with a book, instead. This wasn't completely true, however, as his sensitive ears twitched at the slightest of sounds. The Eladrin trailed about ten feet away from the cart, taking up the backline. Nethruel wasn't too worried about an ambush from behind. After all, he was aware of the hidden paths to and from the Feywild. Still, his control over this magic was still juvenile, so being this far back was only a necessary precaution to better position himself. The book Nethruel was reading was a tome of lore regarding the Gloaming Court, his homeland. Interestingly, the book was obtained from a library on the Material Plane. It was imperative that Nethruel knew of his people's... reputation among the mortals during his time here. He was somewhat aware of the unpopular opinion many of the younger folk have about the Unseelie Fey, although it is for a very good reason. It was best to know more of these things from their perspective, as he was to serve as an emissary to the Prince of Frost On the topic of his patron, Nethruel made sure to mask his allegiances whenever possible. Acting like he didn't speak Common was a start, but he also ensured that those of this caravan would know him as a [i]Wizard[/i], advertising his skills as such. Of course, a Wizard not "knowing" Common was an odd sight for sure, but at the very least, it seemed that a few of his companions also spoke Elvish. Suffice to say, it was quite a surprise to Nethruel that the savage-looking Human spoke his kind's tongue. It was a shame too, he looked like one of the people in this caravan the Eladrin wanted to avoid speaking to if possible. While he looked quite different from the Elves attuned to the Material Plane, Nethruel still looked like an Elf, and it would be implausible for him to not understand Elvish. Such a thing was troubling, but so long as they keep their distance, it wasn't too much of a concern. Hearing the Tortle's flute-playing filled Nethruel with a sense of nostalgia, being reminded of howling winds fluttering through the dead, leafless trees of his homeland. If anything, the Warlock was almost tempted to join the tortoise man in concert. It was a shame he was not Spring, or Autumn. Instead, Nethruel continued to focus on his book, keeping an ear out for any signs of danger.