Cedar's teeth instinctually bared, and his ears couldn't decide if they wanted to be pricked up in alertness, or flattened back in irritation. The conversation had overtones of barbed caution, but staunchly refused to land on either side of the question his instincts demanded answer to.

Friend, or Foe?

The prince had finished tugging on a pair of worn suede leather trousers and a coarse linen cambric shirt, but had done nothing about the fancy haircut... or the manicured fingernails. An attentive person would still spot him. He also reeked like fine castille soap, but cedar knew human noses were awful, and gave that a pass.

He needed an exit plan, just in case, and snuffed intently at the room, seeking cues about drafts, or frequently used avenues through the cellar used to move the goods around.  He doubted very much that they lugged the oversized pickling barrels down here via the stair leading to the dining hall-- that would be absurd.

A draft caught his nose, from one of the far walls.

So, at least there was a way out if the cellar... he needed a way to secure the prince. With furtive purpose, he loosed a rope wrapping from one of the larger barrels, and began wrapping and looping it about himself.

The prince looked at him confusedly and expectantly, but he held a blunted claw to his lips, urging silence.

The rope reeked of sour kraut.

He kept working, continuing to listen intently.