The only scar Larkspur had gained in battle (the only scar visible) was the slash on his face. A coyote girl with a sword had done her work there, and he was lucky that was the only scar he walked away with. He had seen the skill in her hands, despite the fact she was terrified. He doubted that if he met her again it would be the same. War had a funny way of making people grow up. It was a madwoman who had carved the others into his arms, a madwoman who had spoken of prophecy and used herbs that turned his skin white, a madwoman whore who he considered his mother. He loved her with a fanaticism unmatched by anything except his loyalty to the voice of the can tah and the will of a dark god.
Mars explained about his home, something that Larkspur tucked away. Though he was not a scout, or a diplomat, he understood that knowledge was power. Knowledge and magic, of course. It was the question about his fur that made the wolf blink, become suddenly aware of himself, and smile in a way that did not meet his eyes. “Someone mixed things together n’it stole the color,” he explained as best he could. “Dunno what it was.” Only that it had stunk and burned all of his senses. Misery had been the apothecary and the magic-maker, and Larkspur content to let her do so.
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