[center][h3][color=8493ca]Hector Wyland[/color][/h3][/center]
[hr]
[@Croc Crush]

Well. Scarlett was already proving Hector's worries were founded, what with her not being willing to share information, and then snarling like a wild beast when shielded by Tilnak's spell. Shavis had more experience in dealing with her, so Hector would resist the first instinct he had: Smacking her in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle to knock her out. A gentler touch was definitely in order for one so prone to fits of...whatever this was. He was certain that further agitation would sour any chance of them working together without a knife suddenly appearing in someone's back. 

When her little spasming fit of throwing up blood and darkness was finished, Hector would be glad to have a chance to sit down while they rode to the hamlet. Thankfully, Scarlett was sleeping and wouldn't cause another outburst. Dutifully disassembling, checking, and cleaning the parts of his rifle, Hector was relatively quiet the entire ride. It wasn't out of any particular lack of interest in the others, it was more...rude, in his mind, to chatter away while someone who was minutes ago throwing up blood tried to rest. Even if he didn't particularly care for Scarlett's behavior, his good breeding and manners shone through, even if she was a little above a beast in terms of-

When Scarlett lurched forward and puked as the carriage came to a stop, Hector's shoes were right in the line of fire as vomit surged forward. The already palid tone of his face got a touch paler, a ghostly white as he thought about how much his shoes cost. Ruined. By puke. These were fine custom leather boots from Flugell's finest cobbler, designed for both fashion and form...and now they had the faintest tinge of off-black on the top of them. While everyone piled out of the carriage, Hector was absolutely stunned as he realized that he'd have to wear these shoes for quite some time. Getting out with a huge slump to his form, Hector felt like throwing up himself. 

...He'd never forgive Scarlett for this transgression on male fashion.

He'd be so out of it that Herne would eventually start constricting his neck and shoulders to straighten him up, at least presenting him as if he were paying attention for the aged hamlet's leader. He'd really start paying attention though once his name was called by Scarlett, her manner of items laid out for them to take what was directed for them. It was an impressive division of duties and supplies, even if Hector was baffled that Scarlett was suddenly not only competent, but excelling in a leadership role. [color=8493ca][b]"Right,"[/b][/color] Hector said, taking the represent and putting it into his coat pocket. He had no idea just how long it would last, but he figured it was best to take it only when danger was present. With Scarlett now taking off to go "fish", Hector was left with the responsibility of, possibly, teaching some of the villagers a bit about marksmanship. 

[color=8493ca][b]"Before we start dividing up duties and helping the villagers, I'd like to set up one of my summons near the perimeter,"[/b][/color] he said, which was an absolute lie. Rather, while Scarlett was still within viewing distance, he would release a hushed whisper before a thin, wisp-like object gently attached to Scarlett's right shoulder. It vaguely resembled a transparent ball of fluid that flickered like a flame, a pale white glow to it. Scarlett would sense there was no hostility to the spirit or its actions, likely serving to simply "know where she is" if the thin and flimsy nature of it was any indicator. [color=8493ca][b]"Now then,"[/b][/color] Hector said, back inside with the others. [color=8493ca][b]"I'm for Scarlett's plan and division of labor. It solidly divides us to where our strengths are best suited."[/b][/color]