The Rangers need to be brought to heel...they've been allowed to do as they pleased for too long...this is our land, they'll follow our rules!
The reported words of the Triumvirate seemed to chase each other through his mind, shoving out any other thought and causing him all the more irritation.
"Brought to heel..." he grumbled under his breath, "we'll see who follows who's rules."
Kicking at the dirt road with scuffed leather boots and a face like thunder, the Ranger tightened his grip on his bow stave in frustration. What were they thinking? For centuries the Rangers had had their own laws - they were practically a race upon themselves - and now because some nobles were getting frightened off, they had been demanded back to serve the lands under threat of...he shuddered. As a General, he had been there when they had made the threats of what would happen if they were to refuse to serve. The Hawk and the Viper had baulked at the thought of joining the Triumvirate in their quest to stop these kidnappings; the problems of the lands were not the problems of the Rangers, they dealt with things themselves. They didn't take part in the wars of men. The Cat had been wary; they didn't like anything that didn't outwardly benefit them, but the Hare's...they reacted much differently and not in the way anyone else had expected. The Ranger mumbled something about the Order of the Hare being a lot of bowing and scraping sons-of-goat-herders before he managed to stop himself. He knew changes were coming, the wind told him so, but he didn't have to accept them. There wasn't any law for that.
He made slow progress down the road, being defiant in his almost lack of movement. He was in no hurry to be anywhere he was "ordered" to be, thank you very much. The sun was beating down on his shoulders with mid-day ferocity, making him uncomfortable under his leather armor and color-shifting cloak; he wasn't used to being out in open ground for amounts of time such as this, it was sapping his strength. Letting go of his bow stave, he threw it over his shoulder till it caught onto his quiver. The road disagreed with him. He liked seeing before he was seen. If any bandits were to fall on him here, he was done for. Pushing his hair from his damp neck, Orhon sighed and pushed onwards. His old and worn boots were starting to make his feet hurt, almost enough to make him consider investing in a new pair, especially if he would have to travel this road a great deal more often. The soft leather was perfectly appropriate for the soft soil of the forests, but not for the rocky pathways of a town, not at all.
Pausing for a moments rest, he detached a water canteen from his belt and shook it slightly, testing the water levels. They were getting low. Perhaps he better hurry after all.