Chess, Not Checkers

It felt strange to fall back on his old duties, but Sirius had commanded it of him. With Asla distracted with her first litter of fuzzies, the Warlord needed help running things. It worked for Mortis, who needed to fall back into Seer’s inner circle, to keep an eye on the old Warlord. It didn’t make it feel any less strange, when a call rang out at the borders and Mortis angled his patrol to intercept.

There was something oddly familiar about the voice of the caller, and he understood why when he arrived. Art, son of Tamsyn and Resin. Family. Just not one he knew too well. He was friendly enough, and they shared a common loss. Did that make things comfortable, or awkward between them? With Mortis, probably awkward, it was his default in life.

“Hey Art, I'm sure the Warlord will be along soon. What brings you to the Armada?”
"Mortis Fatalis"