Bramblepoint they should deliver all my blessings in small brown paper handbags near the porch

He hovered protectively before his young ward, the girl he was sworn to defend with his life if he had to, grey-green eyes sharp on Caiaphas' own as he dared her to make attempt at bringing harm to her. It was hard to believe that this frail old crone had been the creature who'd brought Vercingetorix to his knees. Her condition had certainly deteriorated since Dacio's time of roaming Drageda turf alongside his kru, for despite her petite frame he recalled so vividly how intimidated he once felt by her.

Not any more. There was nothing left of her to fear.

To hear her speak the former Cheka's name only fuelled his fire, for Dacio's relationship with Vercingetorix had deteriorated considerably in the days before the shedding of his name. He was nothing but a traitor to him, a wolf who'd shared his intention to him with the hope of some sort of approval. In knowing him, he was probably responsible for his own undoing. If Verx was truly dead, the ashen yearling was far from moved.

He was not convinced that his former comrade had run with Rusalka, but he could believe that he was dead. Still, Dacio had no real interest in confirming Blackhead's bold claim, and his impatient huff communicated such. The aspiring Wanheda voices this herself, then beckons him to follow in their native tongue. "Never turn your back on this one," he informed her darkly, fully believing that Caiaphas would not hesitate to attack if they did. "You can fuck off now, Blackhead. I will not tell you again," he barked in the coywolf's direction, raising a heavy paw to enforce his threat with a bold step toward her.