“So if I’m a tiger,” Lyn said with a bright laugh as she walked next to Zal’jir back into the camp where all the mercenaries stayed, armor and axe spattered with the blood of Orcs, “what’s that make you, ZJ?”
The Darkspear rumbled good-naturedly, his own laugh a hollow rasp like reeds in the wind, “Zal’jir’s a bat. Bats stay oudda de tigah’s way.” He paused a moment, the blue fur on his arms bristling before his golden gaze drifted toward the mercenary camp, “There are people at ya tent, Girlie. Imriel. A few oddah’s from de west side of camp. One from de east.”
Her ears pinned back and her eyes narrowed, turning to look in the direction of where she’d pitched her temporary home. She could barely see it...