Chess, Not Checkers

Artorias didn't much care for the way Mortis dismissed his reassurances that he had intended no harm to his father. Would he be wrong to do harm to the Warlord? Absolutely not. Sirius had inflicted harm upon his mother time and time again. If he really felt the desire to, he would be justified in coming for the Fatalis' blood. He had once already, after all. And now Mortis was here, acting some sort of hero in his head after coming home from hiatus. To say the Hallowed wolf didn't exactly trust Mortis' ability to act against his father would have been an understatement. Mortis had failed to do so before, and he knew the emotional turmoil he carried around his family. Mortis may have been bigger than he was and been the son of the Warlord, the heir to the Armada, but in Artorias' eyes he was no more intimidating or threatening than a scared child. He had a lot to prove to earn Artorias' faith in him.

"Respectfully, Mortis, I'm not here with the intentions of seeing any more bloodshed. I'm trying to prevent it," he spoke bluntly. He was in no mood for a pissing contest with the mutant wolf. If he wanted to be an agent of patricide, he was free to be. Artorias was here to learn, to make connections in the Armada, to check on Sirius' mental state and try to bring him back from the brink of insanity, and to make sure Briar wasn't dead. That was all. Anything else fell outside his scope. If the Fatalis wolves wanted to start an internal power struggle with one another then that was their prerogative.

"Artorias Carpathius"