Chess, Not Checkers

Artorias gave Mortis a crooked smirk as realization seemed to dawn across the older young man, giving him an expression that read "you don't say" when he asked if he'd gotten too dramatic. He could feel the nervous energy radiating off of the Fatalis man. It was understandable, given who his father was. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't felt some anxiety when facing off against Sirius in a spar, and although that had turned bloody fast, he could only imagine what facing the Warlord as an enemy would feel like. Mortis was doing what he did best: protecting the wolves he cared about in his own way. Artorias could respect that; was he not the same way with his family? Perhaps the two shared more in common than met the eye.

"I'm glad to be here too, Mort." His eyes softened a touch while they met the turquoise of Mortis', reminiscent of Briar's and the eyes many of the Fatalis family bore. "I know you mean well, you're just looking out for your family and your pack. Whatever happens... whatever needs to happen, I'm going to side with the right reasons. Whatever you need of me, you can confide in me. We're basically family, after all."

He did respect Mortis, but Sirius was like a father to him. He wouldn't swear fealty to one side or another, especially when lines didn't even need to be drawn yet. But if things took a turn for the worse, if Sirius became such a threat that he endangered his own family, Artorias would take up arms with the Armada to defend them from a bloodthirsty tyrant. He would not be the spark to set off the powder keg, but he damn well would be a blade to fight for the righteous cause.

"Artorias Carpathius"