Shelter
06-26-2013, 05:12 AM
Masqurading as a man with a Reason my Charade is the Event of the Season though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man though my mind could think, I still was a mad man I hear the voices when I'm dreaming I can hear them say: ~*~ Well seemed that Gargoyle's protective soul wasn't needed here this day. The low grumble that had been threading in his throat died away. The male in the back looked more likely to wet himself than anything. Which in Gargoyle's book at the moment, was actually a good thing. That made him stop and think. Oi. The Chief shook the snow off his shoulders. Mercianne said the male was a friend. Well, as there were no signs that the male was a threat, Gargoyle let himself mentally relax. On the outside his gaze and tone remained the same, he didn't have much control of them - or was it that he had too much control? "Toprak, was it?" Gargoyle lifted his nose in a sort of salute. "Well if your Merci's friend, you're welcome enough here." He shot a side glance at the fae though, telling her he would've liked to have known in advance. Then again, maybe she'd been coming to introduce the male formally, but the wind had stopped them. Very probably. "My apologies if I startled you," the Chief rumbled on. "There was a time when the rules were that guest rogues and even friendly wolves from other packs were welcome upon our snows." His voice quieted, "Mercianne was there in the beginning, perhaps she remembers." His tattered ear flicked at the coming memories, "But time and a great many wolves that each deserve to have their larynx ripped out, have proven that it's wiser for us to remain on guard." There. Gargoyle summed up the situation in his own colorful, drawling way. The Chief gathered her hind legs and sat down, still more or less outside of the crack, even if his head was poked within. There wasn't anymore room, but he didn't mind. Thanks to his size and coat and temperament, he could take the punishment from the winds. And there was always the offhand chance they would abate as quickly as they'd begun. Carry on my Wayward Son There'll be peace when you are done |