The demons in our blood

The more Fever spoke, the more Alastor felt the fury in his blood bubble and rise. The great dire brute did his best to keep his emotions concealed behind a carefully crafted mask as his granddaughter gleefully explained how Moros was telling her stories, though for the life of him he couldn't figure out how. He was aware of the afterlife and Somnium—he had seen Relm there since her death—but in all the years since Moros had been slain, the bastard had never dared to show his face to Alastor or any of his descendants. He had thought his psychopathic sire gone for good, burning in the pits of hell far, far away. Apparently he had simply been biding his time.

Fever went on to mention some of the things Moros had told her about. About Rhea, his mother, and of Mirovis. Alastor's jaw clenched, his teeth gnashing together behind tightly closed lips. His sharp gemstone claws flexed and dug into the dirt while he listened to Fever speak. "Is that so?" Al asked, still feigning interest while he began to get out some of the fruit for their picnic and laying it out for them to snack on. He didn't want to ruin their day together because of this revelation. But when Fever mentioned Moros showing her himself when he was young and how proud Moros had been of him, Alastor's facade as nearly shattered. His claws raked deep into the dirt, a tremor of rage shuddering through his body. His fur bristled and he barely managed to choke down a snarl to recompose himself. "Did he now? That's... very kind of him." Fuck he hated the bastard...!

At least the next part Alastor didn't have to fake. When Fever proudly told him that Moros had said she was part of a line of highly strong and intelligent wolves, Alastor smiled to the pup and nodded emphatically. "And he's right! You are part of the strongest, smartest, and most talented family of wolves the world has ever seen, little firefly! And we are all so very, very proud of you and love you so very, very much." Reaching a giant paw around the small girl to pull her closer, Alastor planted a long, affectionate lick across his granddaughter's forehead, then nuzzled his snout against her face with a playful chuckle. But there was a deeper concern lingering in Alastor's heart—that of his psychotic sire. "When do you see Moros, Fe? And... does he... ever do anything to... hurt or upset you?" Alastor knew what kind of brute Moros was. He knew what he had done to his own daughters. To think that the degenerate monster was spending time with his innocent grandchild was disturbing.

"Alastor Mendacium"