[ Titus' ear perks up, the dog letting out a short whuff as he lumbers to his feet. Something's caught his attention - he shakes out his coat, tilts his head, and trots over to the door.
Damian ignores him, and ignores the sounds of Pennyworth puttering around, up until the point his hound's snuffling suddenly shifts to a deep, warning growl, barking sharply at the door with his hackles raised. Damian glances away from the window, mouth thinning.
Titus has good senses, and is well-trained; he'd noticed Ducard hiding in the trees, and he notices now that something is amiss.
(Father, out of the house, chasing after a ghost of a boy. Just him and Pennyworth, caught in the same damn scenario.
At least this time he's not wearing a neck-brace.)
Silently, he slips over to the fireplace, fingers brushing against the fire iron (quick, whiplike, with a nasty hook) before opting for the spade (slower, but with heft, a broad, flat edge that can split a yule log in two - or sever a neck). He doesn't have much protective wear on, not even his gloves, or he'd heat it up in the embers first.
Oh, well. He can make do with what he has. Even silk can become a weapon; she taught him as much.
Titus has already given his location away more than likely, and it's too dangerous to try and slip out into the hall, but Damian can work with this. The pillows are stuffed beneath the covers, and with a quick, silent climb he's perched above the door. A sharp motion commands his dog to quiet, back off, go to the foot of the bed. Titus isn't happy about it, growling and whining, but Damian is firm.
He throws his voice to where the bed is, adopting the drowsy tones that Jason speaks with in the morning before he's fully awake. ]
Hush, mutt. Go to sleep. [ An irritated grumble, words slurring together, trailing off into quiet. Convincing. Just a young boy at rest, peaceful beneath the covers.
And above, a young assassin waits, eyes focused intently on the doors below and spade gripped tight, a furious curl to his lips flashing sharp little teeth.
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Damian ignores him, and ignores the sounds of Pennyworth puttering around, up until the point his hound's snuffling suddenly shifts to a deep, warning growl, barking sharply at the door with his hackles raised. Damian glances away from the window, mouth thinning.
Titus has good senses, and is well-trained; he'd noticed Ducard hiding in the trees, and he notices now that something is amiss.
(Father, out of the house, chasing after a ghost of a boy. Just him and Pennyworth, caught in the same damn scenario.
At least this time he's not wearing a neck-brace.)
Silently, he slips over to the fireplace, fingers brushing against the fire iron (quick, whiplike, with a nasty hook) before opting for the spade (slower, but with heft, a broad, flat edge that can split a yule log in two - or sever a neck). He doesn't have much protective wear on, not even his gloves, or he'd heat it up in the embers first.
Oh, well. He can make do with what he has. Even silk can become a weapon; she taught him as much.
Titus has already given his location away more than likely, and it's too dangerous to try and slip out into the hall, but Damian can work with this. The pillows are stuffed beneath the covers, and with a quick, silent climb he's perched above the door. A sharp motion commands his dog to quiet, back off, go to the foot of the bed. Titus isn't happy about it, growling and whining, but Damian is firm.
He throws his voice to where the bed is, adopting the drowsy tones that Jason speaks with in the morning before he's fully awake. ]
Hush, mutt. Go to sleep. [ An irritated grumble, words slurring together, trailing off into quiet. Convincing. Just a young boy at rest, peaceful beneath the covers.
And above, a young assassin waits, eyes focused intently on the doors below and spade gripped tight, a furious curl to his lips flashing sharp little teeth.
Pennyworth better be unharmed. ]