in my old age I'll be pimpin' with my cane

Artorias was nothing if not a creature of habit about his morning routines. Up at the first light of dawn, meditation on the walls facing the western sea, then stretches and sword fighting practice followed by a morning patrol and then breakfast. The dark-furred alpha of the Hallows was just now finishing up that morning patrol, heading back in through the castle gates and into the dew-glistening gardens. He wandered over mossy cobblestone paths, taking in the scent of wet grass and florals along the way. For the most part, it was another ordinary morning—until he saw the galactic form of the Hallows' resident surly surgeon. Fiery eyes met Deion's tired (or perhaps apathetic?) red gaze and greeted the other man with a curt nod and half smile.

"Good morning, Deion," he greeted his pack mate, walking up to the waiting wolf and regarding him with a curious gaze. Deion didn't tend to wake up this early, nor did he just sit out on the damp grass for his own amusement. Artorias could feel something was off, and though he didn't know what yet, he had a gut instinct he knew what it might be. "Waiting for someone?"

"Artorias Carpathius" | "Carpathian" | "Corbin" | "Argent"