sorry for the delay

The boy and his horse were a peculiar sight. Well, the boy was. It looked as if half of his face had been painted black. As he approached, Larkspur studied his face. Clearly he was looking at a hybrid—the muzzle was broader and shorter then a wolf’s, and he was much smaller than any purebred. With a father who was himself an arctic wolf, the largest of all the wild kin, Larkspur was built large. He had filled out since he had joined Dahlia de Mai, in large part because he was allowed to hunt freely. The Khalif had never granted that right to a boy marked by evil. Until he had settled east, Larkspur had been lanky (though still large) and scavenging for his meals.

Both of Larkspur’s ears rose to a dark crown and listened to the voice. He did not expect anything deeper then what he heard, though his eyes narrowed as he observed the boy sizing him up. Larkspur had survived by instincts and by fighting, and he recognized that even within that silent observation the boy might be considering any number of things. Violence, of course, always seemed to be a likely option. The wolf flicked an ear dismissively at the comment. “Guess not,” he replied. The mountain drawl had not left him. “What’re y’doin out this late, kid?” Looking for trouble, most likely. What else did boys do?

Though his eyesight was still good, Larkspur was unable to see the subtle signs the stranger was displaying. They were too far away, it was too dark (for the moon was just past half, turning gibbous above them) and he was not looking at anything except the boy’s face. It intrigued him. He had seen magicians dye themselves in order to denote their rank, and seen warriors paint their faces before battle, but this boy was not holding a ritual and certainly not meant for battle. Why, then, was his face drawn up in such a manner? It was puzzling.

Yet he heard the nervousness as the boy—Mars—spoke and relaxed. He sensed no danger. The name Cour Des Miracles was dismissed, for Larkspur had never heard of it and didn’t pay attention to the politics of packs. The only group besides his own he recognized was Inferni, and he intended to stay as far away from them as possible. While he had liked Kaena when they had met, the burning of Dahlia de Mai had drawn up fears he would never get over. His own mare, stockier then the boy’s horse, snorted but otherwise remained still. She was as patient as her master. “Larkspur D’Angelo. M’from further north, from Dahlia de Mai.” He shifted back in the saddle, orange eyes still locked with the pale blue-gray ones. The quiet comment did not slip by his sensitive ears. “Yeah n’yer dressed funny. I ain’t ever seen a wolf dressed up like y’are. Must not feel too good,” he added, tilting his head slightly. Larkspur had never worn anything more than a winter cloak, and most often was nude save for his fur. Tonight was not an exception.

Aside from his nephew, no member of the D’Angelo clan lived within the borders of this land. Harlowe was interesting, if a little mouthy. The boy lacked discipline, but Lark was not surprised by this. His mother was weak and his upbringing was pathetic. He could turn that around. Just as he saw potential in King, he saw potential in his nephew. The two of them could be great, provided that they were pointed in the right direction. With Haku dead, it was now up to Larkspur to ensure the boy grew up right. His half-brother would ruin him. Conor did not have the same drive as his father.

Larkspur frowned at the expression. The boy had been making fun of him, so why was he upset that Larkspur spoke ill of him? Had the boy’s thoughts been spoke aloud, Lark would have laughed. To be ashamed of scars was strange. His own were displayed in great glory, writing out a prophecy he did not fully understand. “Lookin’ for supplies,” he answered shortly. Uncomfortable by the boy’s display, the orange eyed wolf grunted. “Yer from that dog pack south, right? Everyone dress like that?”

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.