Stories are just words without meaning.

[Skoll]

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Dude, if Lubomir wasn't traveling through Russia, he could so be walking past Skoll's home pack of StoneTree in northern Canada =) Virtually the same description. "I appreciate the sentiment, Lubomir, but I've been working at doing my job well for a very long time. If you ever encounter someone with the ability to kill me, well...valor is all well and good, but I'd still prefer it if you keep yourself safe." He wondered who it would be who killed him. Probably someone like the Lykois, if he was honest with himself. He had trained harder than anyone he'd ever met, barring Twilight; he had found a trainer better than anyone else could ever hope to find, and had been at it longer than most of the people around here had been alive. He would get older, slower, his body would begin to fail his expectations one day, and eventually someone of lower skill would fell him. It wasn't the way he preferred to go, but it was how he expected to. These thoughts banished with the contuation of the story, Skoll's eyes widened slightly. Lubomir may as well have been describing StoneTree. Had the Great Frozen Plains been his home? No...he had never heard that name for it...he didn't know of any great mountain ranges, either. Still, he wondered...it would have been so...unexpected, to find someone who had heard back from his home. He hadn't heard anything about his family in six years, and hadn't felt great regret for that until the prospect of someone having heard of them arose. Still, the next leg of the story demanded attention more than the setting, and he knew it would be rude to get hung up on the wrong aspect of the story. So, abusing the young. He had seen it before, though it had never gone on long in his presence. What do you want, you wretched thing? a faceless woman's voice said to him at some point in the past. No, this one's mine, and I'll treat it as I wish. Be gone you ripped-faced mongrel, before I set my brothers to ruin the rest of you. The little girl's ears were flat against her skull as her mother whipped her, while her uncles watched. Indistinct violence, the details of which he couldn't recall. You bastard!! Who are to do this? What are you? The mother's outraged cry had been a seething sob, seeing both of her brothers dying in the grass, one throat opened and one head facing the wrong way. 'Salvation for her. Death for them. I guess you'll decide what I am to you.' "Go on." ~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.

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