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Mourn the days that are gone, fair warrior
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I had heard that your pack accepts members that nobody else glances at. Jefferson made a face at this, his expression twisting into something clearly puzzled. Where had he heard that? The cyclops supposed he couldn't exactly argue; he himself had been accepted (or forced, more or less) into Phoenix Valley under rather dire and unusual circumstances. However, the white male's words were not an insult; Jefferson and Geneva were typically lenient with who they allowed in, but the cyclops had his standards. If they weren't respectful or willing to learn and work hard, then they had no place here. If they followed those requirements, however, they would be allowed in under the understanding that the Patriarch had expectations of them.
"Well, I guess that's true," he shrugged. Jefferson had seen his fair share of weaklings in the Valley, but many of them had made improvements in their time spent in the pack. Since Phoenix Valley had little arguments with other packs and were generally left to themselves, members were able to focus on training or learning -- the pack was a great place for both personal and physical improvements, with its varying array of members and personalities. When it came to auras, of course, Jefferson was relatively clueless. He sent the stranger an odd look for his compliment was nothing the cyclops had ever expected to hear. As far as Jefferson was concerned, the Valley's leader was a gruesome, scarred monster hardly worth the light of day. "Speak your mind," he allowed when the stranger cowered. "My name is Jefferson; I am the leader here."
He turned his head. "And the hiding one is Anya. Do you two know each other?"
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