B R U T U S
The Dancing Fool, Jester of Glorall
I'm a falling stone in a world of glass,
I'm a ticking bomb with a smiling mask.
He vaguely registered while he was making his rounds that it was none other than young Mortz, Weylin's adopted son (and so B-mut's not-actually-related great grandson?) that he was make believing the strangest war against. Brutus yipped at him a tittering laughter, even as the youth tightened himself up into a frightened block of stone and rumbled a threatening growl, before he dove back into the "safety" of his makeshift fort.
Even then, he continued to chitter and laugh, sounding more like a hyena than anything like a wolf, the crazed and exhuberant sound dully echoing out. As he sat within the small confines of his fort, he was hardly motionless, the adrenaline buzzing through his skeletal body causing him to wiggle and his tail to twitch. He panted for breath, tongue hanging limp out the side of his mouth, before dipping his head out the entryway to peer curiously at Mortz. Only a single black-lined, chartreuse eye gazed out, and a single ear flicked forward.
Oh. The pup was scared.
Well, he should be, shouldn't he? Of the very frightening, very menacing Brutus. Only, it was odd, because very rarely did anyone express fear of him (usually just anger, confusion, or disgust).
Either Brutus was doing something wrong, or Mortz was. And, according to Brutus, it was very unlikely to Brutus to be doing anything wrong.
"Oh, young Princling! Little Mortz!" the Jester finally yipped to the yearling, though he did not make himself any more visible. "Do you lay siege to my fort? Or... do you come to inspect it? It is of royal quality, I assure you, as I made it with my own paws and teeth."