got toes and i can smile

For @Madmortigan, no need to match. i'm just kinda ramblin.

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Though the far-reaches of Thracia's reach do not reach this far, fox ranges have a unique way of overlapping. Enemies are kept in check, and reports of wolves in the area have been noted. But the foxes are gone. Evidence of both is nearby, but there are no foxes anymore. A sign to Nicabar that perhaps enemies can be turned against each other.

He had not planned on being spotted. He would not be spotted, he thinks, as he traverses through the overcast dawn. The barest spears of light guide his eyes, but he can hear most threats approaching. And the Centurions, spread nearby, keep watch. They would die for him if he asked. They would die for him if he wouldn't.

The idea is simple. The mountains aren't safe, currently, to expand into. Getting as far from them as possible seems wise; too many wolves live there. He could find a safe place, and perhaps find a home that isn't too close to where wolves settle. Or, and the idea comes to him softly, he could form an alliance with wolves. Would they accept spies that would not be noticed as infiltrators? Would they accept a food source of slaves?

He doesn't know, but he could find out.

A Centurion signals. Exposed by the tangle of roots, Nicabar finds he's temporarily trapped. He could find shelter beneath a tangle of roots nearby, but they likely don't go deep. But he moves towards them regardless, keeping his gaze outward. He will speak to whatever enemy comes close. Perhaps, even, he could convince them to lay down their arms.

"Spare me and I shall grant you more kills later," he begins. Bargaining. He keeps his stance, his voice, his gaze free of fear. He's learning that even wolves can be reasoned with. "The warren of this land are enemies of us. I know where they burrow."
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 The meal makes a more intriguing plea than most.

 The Harbinger gazes down at the rabbit, the roots behind it a gnarled wooden cradle - or coffin.

 “And what use to me are you when that warren is dead?”

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Nicabar offers a wry smile. "I am not killing them all," he says. "Slaves can breed, can't they? A rabbit has a litter of four, on average. Takes six months for them to grow... And I have no problem giving over chattel."
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 His pack is small, something he does not begrudge. Less mouths means less taxation on the land’s resources. Still. “Rabbits aren’t enough. You aren’t enough.”

 He took another step, closing in.

 “But your senses are renowned, are they not? You spend your whole lives running. How many predators do you sense a day, on average?”

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The wolf wants something else? Nicabar can provide.

"About ten enemies, give or take," he says. "Multiply that by the reach of my Centurions, and I can provide you with names and locations."
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 That’s better.

 “You might find peace in the grove to the North of these Roots. You’ll meet me on the border once a day to make your report. If you give us other things to hunt - predator or otherwise - we won’t hunt you. If you don’t…”

 For what kind of leverage did a rabbit have against a wolf?

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"It's a deal, then." Nicabar can handle that. Set people to patrolling. "I may send a centurion to report in my place on days I cannot make it. My life is rather busy. But you shall have eyes and ears where there were none before."

Because in truth, having fewer predators in the area would be suitable to Nicabar as well. Safety for his people, and he doesn't even have to offer the bodies of his slaves. What a bargain!
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 “Very well. Leave now, rabbit. Make sure you don’t fall into any teeth on your way home.”

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Nicabar laughs once. "Don't worry. When the whole world is against you, you become strong." And off he goes.
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