The move to the cabin was rather quiet; he chatted briefly with Jantus while the troupe followed accordingly; his single green eye could see the skepticism in their faces and his tattered ears could hear their whispers and scorns. Why did it bother him? He was Phoenix Valley's leader, the pack's representative and nearly the pack's oldest member. In reality, the opinions of strangers -- their views on him, the thoughts they formed on seeing his scarred coat and hearing the few words he'd spoken -- meant nothing to him for he'd already been shaped and was no longer worth their manipulation. However, standing alone that day, he was Phoenix Valley personified as its representative, and their whisperings against him were thus put against his pack instead. That, all in all, was what brought a darkness to his eye, but Jefferson simply remained silent and moved on.

Introductions began, an overall flood of foreign and remarkable names that he would never be able to remember save a few unique names put to unique faces. The late Skoll's children were introduced first; they looked awkward and unsure, almost opposite of the three individuals who had appeared to him claiming to be his own children. They'd been full of hate and vengefulness, while Skoll's children seemed... humbled, in a way. Clearly, he'd done something right in his parenting that Jefferson had been unable to do in his absence of his childrens' lives. "I'm sorry for your loss," was all he could choke up to them. Out of the other eyes in the room, the yearlings' were the least skeptical somehow. When he repeated the same phrase for a few other introductions -- the dead one's brother and apprentice -- he forced the same sympathy. He didn't know Skoll. Jefferson didn't even know a family more than names and a few faces. He hadn't grown up alongside someone, or at least he couldn't remember it. The empathy he should have had was simply not there, but was somehow genuine only for the dead man's three children and their awkward eyes.

At his comment, Jantus earned himself a playful smirk from the one-eyed Patriarch. "Superstitious, no. Sarcastic, yes." That was the truth of it, all in all; he was a bastard deep down, unafraid to toy with his words even when they involved the dead and their loved ones. Jantus continued however, making small talk as they waited out the rain; what he said, however, was not the typical chatter of an idle mind. Jantus spoke wisely and knowledgeably of their dead comrade -- as the day continued to progress, Jefferson silently stored away their words in the back of his mind, considering each as they passed through his ears. The dead, the alive, the afterlife -- these things were so foreign to he that considered everything, and he could only wonder how the world would react the second he left it behind. "He sounds like a life to be remembered," the cyclops said slowly, all seriousness in his voice. "You honor him by coming."

With some organization, Jefferson moved the funeral party back outside the cabin and once again took their lead, the single Valley man against a mass of foreigners. Jantus, his fellow cyclops, was someone he could trust and comfortably walk beside. As they moved along, Jefferson pointed out a few places of interest they were passing, including the Ranch where he resided and the Three Moons Lakes that neighbored it. Even covered in snow and ice, the land of Phoenix Valley was beautiful; as Jefferson moved along, he realized perhaps the land he watched over so closely was worth the resting place of Skoll through its beauty, if nothing more.

Jantus began. He held the stance and air of a leader, of someone experienced in exactly what he was doing; briefly Jefferson felt a tinge of compassion at the concept, wondering how many funerals Jantus had performed in his day. For the Patriarch, of course, this was a first. He hadn't even known Skoll, but as he stood uselessly in the background and apart from the funeral party as a sidelines observer, Jefferson's full attention lay with them. Some names he didn't recognize were brought to air. A rank or two was mentioned, then the story was laid forth. A creature injured badly while trying to be a hero. He survived, then inspired others and led them into the battle, and now he was a legend. Had he not been struck by the seriousness of the funeral, the cyclops might have ordinarily scoffed.

He sighed. How many of the lost members of the Valley -- those who had just suddenly disappeared without a trace, like Iskata and Allegro -- had actually fallen to their deaths and not met the afterlife with closure at a funeral? When it came to those who vanished, Jefferson had always taken extra time to scout out the outside borders of Phoenix Valley in fear he would stumble upon another collapsed, scarred and torn Iskata clinging to life. Every time a member left suddenly, the Patriarch spent the next few days routing out the land outside the Valley just in case, following lingering scents and what little knowledge he had on their traveling tendencies. He'd never had any luck, though he had found Iskata and saved her life, not to mention Addison freezing in the snow. Jefferson had done his share of rescues, most unknown to the world around him, but never amounted to anything more than a one-eyed monster with a foul demeanor. He'd never thought of himself deserving of the honor the late Skoll was now receiving -- the crimes he'd committed in his past were unforgivable.

Jefferson found no words to respond to Jantus, having become lost in his thoughts instead, but eventually focused his eye on the female who stood briefly at the headstone. Who was she? What was her story? The factors in a life that he, the skilled analyst, could not figure out in a stranger were overwhelming. Jefferson sighed, though his ears perked when a male took his turn next. He carried himself well, as if he had led battles and creatures. This wolf, presented as the dead man's brother, spoke of Skoll highly although it became obvious that they had been separated a majority of their lives. Skirnir didn't say it directly, but it occurred to Jefferson that the brother regretted the division, mentioning that Skoll had in fact been exiled, though no details were included. Perhaps then, Skoll himself had committed some crimes despite all the glory he eventually lived up to -- had Jefferson been more sentimental, he might have thought he could do the same.

But Aivyr spoke of Skoll as a killer -- funny, Jefferson should have seen that. The dead man had seen wars unlike anything else, or at least his comrades seemed to think so. The cyclops refused to see himself as anything worthy of praise for similar sins of the past, most of which his amnesia had forbidden from his memory (which was probably for the best). Jefferson didn't know how many crimes he'd committed as wild-eyed Maluki, but he could only assume they were unforgivable, what with bastard children biting at his heels and dozens of faces recognizing him but wondering what had changed him so. Skoll had found the means of compensation somehow; Jefferson could not, or at least he would not let himself.

It was Nikolov's words that brought the cyclops' tattered ears back against his skull. The boy's goodbye was brief, but its tenderness cringed at the scarred man's single eye. He was a leader himself, trying to make differences for those he watched over. He was their guardian, or so he tried to be. Had he stirred any change in any of them? Had he bettered the pack Iskata had left for him, or would she only look away in shame should she see him now? The brute frowned and turned his gaze away; this funeral was turning into a court for his own character put on the stand, accused and denied by himself alone.