Clemente
Yeah well, Clem may know next to nothing about birds any bigger than a seagull, but he can certainly figure out when he isn't wanted. Ducking away he turns his face away from the eagle, cringing instinctively away from the shrieking and aggressive flapping in fear of retaliation. "Sorry, sorry," he mutters out of capitulating instinct more than any sincere remorse. Though that quickly changes when the bird takes flight, swooping away from him in a majestic arc that only seems to emphasize Clem's ridiculous notions of companionship. Sighing, the boy re-clasps his bag and adjusts his gloves and scarf. There is next to no sun penetrating through the thick snow clouds overhead, but it's enough for him to have turned the scarf into a makeshift loose headwrap. No sense in courting combustion for the sake of a cranky bird, or even crankier citizens. Clemente returns to the bustle of the crowds, hissing and snapping insults when people shove carelessly against him. They are just as unkind in return, which is just fine by Clem. Until he recognizes the stoic face that he is approaching in the street, frowning and pausing, someone shoulder checking him because of the sudden stop. Clem grumbles and sweeps out of the throng towards Deimos, only able to recognize him because of how seriously he'd taken Wessex's orders to observe the world around him, and how he'd reported the events of the political meeting to her. "Hey, ain't ya our General? Whatcha doin' out this far?" Suspicion turns tawny eyes sharp and narrow, fearlessly drawing himself up in front of the man despite the differences in their heights and the awareness that the literal leader of their military forces could probably crush him in one giant hand.
