Horizon Ridge shadow runner

Constantine did not miss the curling of the lip – a sign of disgust the moment a word of law was mentioned. The youth was brash – cocky, it seemed, and the wraith wondered then if it was a mistake to invite the boy to stay. There was a harshness to him – and the Mayfair briefly wondered if it was worth the risk – especially when the stranger was only keen the moment sparring was mentioned.
 
He considered this for a moment, his fiery eyes sweeping over the youth with stoical quietude. The boy’s distaste for law and eagerness for fight could very well be his youthful age – and perhaps he would flourish under the protection of the forest and the wolves Constantine hoped to encourage. Sparring – warriors – were exactly what he sought, but not for the purpose of stirring chaos within the lands of the Wilds. He also sought wolves of other skills – determined to build a well rounded pack. “Constantine,” he offered then, accepting the youth he now knew as Drogon with a subtle and assertive nod of his muzzle. “Where are you from?” Because in order to know if he was accepting a ticking time bomb in to his future ranks, he needed to know more.