Oskig didn’t seem to be bothered by the knife at all. In truth, he had been held at the end of weapons too much in his life. It was never because he posed a threat— more that he was too nosy, and knew to much. Even so, he had taken care of it with his own rapier. It may not have been the most innocent past, but he kept it hidden pretty well. The only thing that went to show for it was his single clouded eye. Yes, it was difficult to see out of, as he was partially blind, but he made it work just the same.
“I believe you are entitled to your own opinion,” he murmured, watching as she reigned the knife back in. “So of course trusting me will only come with time. I understand your view.”
Oskig then tilted his head at the question, navy feathers cascading around his neck.
“You do not know much about the owlfolk, do you?” he asked, and although the structure may have sounded mocking, his calm voice didn’t suit it.
With that, Os gave a chuckle. “No, we cannot fly. Such is the curse of the owlets. Do not ask me why, for that is something I still have yet to discover.”
He then held up a clawed finger, stepping back into the cabin, and reappearing with a small wooden trinket and his lute. He stationed his loot atop his back and held the trinket gingerly in his hand.
“As for steeds, however,” he said, holding the carving up. “Here is mine.”
Oskig set the small wooden mule down, stepping back and muttering an incantation. From the figuring poured grey light, soon taking the shape of a mule much larger than before. It’s skin still held a wooden structure, but it looked as sentient as could be— and held a pristine leather saddle atop it’s back. Oskig gently took it’s reigns, cooing to the animal.
“This is Credence,” he said joyously, stroking the mule’s muzzle. Since Oskig, as an owlfolk, had the thin bone structure of birds, he was extremely light and actually able to ride atop the wooden animal. “And as for where we should go… I know a place. It’s a town just south of here. Westluck? You know it?”
