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Angus McFife XIII does not know what exactly he had expected upon arrival, but this is clearly not it.
He is used to being paraded as the Ultimate Hero to Slay Them All, and he is used to being treated accordingly.
That being said, he, of course, does not expect people here to fall on their knees and thank the Hootsman for the arrival of the famed saviour (though he has no idea whether or not Ralathor has even spoken of him as such; there is a creeping feeling at the back of Angus’ mind that the hermit, now warrior, simply does not care for his titles, at least not enough to bestow the knowledge of them onto other people), but he has never experienced people going out of their way to avoid being alone with him, or looking at him as though he were moments from growing a second head and devouring them all, when he merely drops an awkward “hello!” into their general direction.
Not much of a welcome, to a figure as important in the Eternal Struggle Against the Forces of Evil, he sulks as he wanders, in tow to Ralathor and that second-in-command of his, Alphonse, around the resistance base in the Valley of Achnasheen. Right now, these two – and the unicorns, who appear unbothered by just about anyone here – are the only people not shying away from the Prince of Fife.
People approach them, from time to time, but whatever their inquiries might be, they are always directed at their commander, even as they glance at Angus over Ralathor’s shoulder. Now, Angus is used to people staring - after all, they always do, even more so if you are the heir to a galactic empire -, but those stares have always been full of curiosity and admiration. Right now, there is not a single person out of what he would call the simple folk who does not behold him with fear and suspicion, and those addressing Ralathor speak hastily, eager to remove themselves from the prince’s close proximity as soon as possible.
- They are afraid of me, - eventually, Angus concludes.
- Of course, they are.
Angus stares into the commander’s back, realizing he has spoken his conclusions out loud, for Ralathor to hear.
- I say! – Alphonse declares, with the kind of lack of respect characteristic to the dwarven part of his family tree. – Would be a wonder if they weren’t!
- You are a stranger here, - Ralathor continues, as though he has not noticed the remark. – You arrived from outside of the valley. Alone. Shortly after the fall of Dunkeld. They are afraid. There’s no place to run, no place to hide here, in case if you were possessed, brainwashed, or simply an agent of Zargothrax’s in disguise. Suspicion has kept us alive for a long time.
- But surely, they must know who I am! – Angus protests.
- They do.
-Oi, shiny pants, what makes you think they’ll drop everything they are doing and line up to worship you, eh? – the half-dwarf snickers. – This here ain’t your fancy empire! They don’t know anything about ye! You just show up, tell some fancy story about how some guy sent you our way and expect us to believe you’ve no ill will?
- But if Ralathor says you’ve been waiting for me for a long time—
Angus is ready to fight like a man over this, if need be, before he is interrupted by the former hermit, now apparently the leader of the resistance:
- Angus, it’s one thing to hear stories and be told somebody will come, but a completely different thing when they finally arrive. Everybody here is frightened, even more so since our last outpost has fallen. Earn their trust and respect. That’s all the advice I can give you.
Angus McFife XIII does not know what exactly he had expected upon arrival, but this is clearly not it.