Chess, Not Checkers

He would have to have been blind to miss the way Mortis' expression changed when he mentioned Sirius' invitation, or the way the winged wolf eyed the sword on his back. Mortis' eyes shifted, his posture becoming more guarded. Artorias could understand why. He was being a good son and trying to protect his father's image. Both of them knew something was wrong with Sirius, yet neither of them would outrightly say it. It was a delicate lingual dance they did, acting more like politicians than anything and deftly avoiding the subject at hand. It was Mortis to yield first, mentioning keeping busy with maintaining the Armada and keeping and eye on Seer. Artorias' eyes darkened with understanding. Ah, there was the confirmation he was looking for.

Taking a moment to glance behind and around Mortis, Artorias let his smile drop from his face while fixing the Armadan heir with a serious gaze. "How is he?" he asked, then quickly qualified, "Truthfully. My mother... she mentioned things about him. Unpleasant things he said and did to her." He again avoided stating that Tamsyn had called him volatile and unstable, or that she had begged him not to come here. It seemed like both young men were fighting the same war on the same side, but they weren't a unified front—not yet, at least. "I'm not here to kill him. I want to help any way I can," Artorias said with a harder edge to his tone when he caught Mortis' eyes move to his sword a second time.

"Artorias Carpathius"