Chess, Not Checkers

It was a vast difference to meet Art here and now. The smaller wolf held an imposing figure, sword and satchel slung over his shoulder, he looked very official, on his way to important business. Mortis looked different too. Back home, patrolling the Armada borders. Official. The last time he had seen Art had been miserable in the rain, tears and rainfall mixing in his coat.

“I returned just after the tournament” he explained. Had Tamsyn talked to Art, did he know the darker parts of the Warlord's temperament? “Training? Well, it’ll be good to have you around.” he considered Art a moment, his eyes glancing to the sword, and back to the serious face of the young wolf. He didn’t look his age, but how could he? After losing his mother and becoming a leading figure in the Hallows. He was angling to become leader one day. It was a lofty goal. Surely Tamsyn would have told him…

“It… It’s different, that’s for sure. Keeping busy. Keeping… an eye on Sirius.” that could be innocent enough a statement, and locked his eyes on Art, catching any reaction.

"Mortis Fatalis"