By all accounts, in his Optime form as he currently was, Lark must have looked a brute. Between the scarred arms and broad frame, he certainly looked a fright. Still, his movements were gentle—he treated this frail, thin woman with the same tenderness as he would have Misery. They met and her arm was offered to him, one that his white fingers took and felt gingerly. The shackles were rusting and well worn. He had no idea how long they had been on her, but given the ruined fur underneath (what was left of it) he reasoned it had to be a while. Gradually, his face darkened and turned cold, feeling the same hatred he had for the Khalif raise up in his white-plastered chest.
Without looking up, he began speaking. “These need off.” It was not a question, and likely sounded more like a demand. Of all the things that the salt and pepper wolf despised, this unspoken bondage was amongst them. A year ago, this might have been him—except then they would have drawn up flame and sent him to his grave.
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