The granite gradients of their home were shrouded in night, illuminated by Luna's pallid boon. Where morning dared to light up the skies in the east, rainclouds roiled in the west. The clouds sapped the saturation. In turn, the reverberant colors below were dingily hollow. Once day reached their skies, it would be a long, bleak day. They would not feel the sun's warming touch. This was but a warning of what was to come: the purging of the weak, the renewal of life.
           Vehiron wanted nothing more than to curl up into the furthest reaches of his den and sleep. However, an energy rippled beneath his skin; electric, as it surged throughout him. It could not go ignored, so he uncoiled and stretched his tired limbs, coming to exit his hovel. What greeted him outside was a light drizzle...and a nippy breeze. Not his cup of tea. The cold always made his joints ache, especially when it rained.
           With an indignant snort, he traversed the mountain, doing nothing in particular other than familiarizing himself with the nooks, crannies, and possible shortcuts. He spotted nothing scurrying about beneath him, still resting for the day ahead. Vehiron tardily ascended the peak only to come across a gray outline standing atop one of Silvertip's many drop-offs. He could smell Tonravik upon him, so that alone put him at ease. He approached Goldry, his talons noisily clicking against the rock. Eerily enough, the sound seemed to carry, inhabiting the mountain's many vestibules.
           “Quite exhilarating, no?” Scratchy were his vocals, sleep evident on his countenance and stature. Just who was this man? Where did he stand in this merry band of misfits?

One gleaming gold eye examined him, tension sneaking into the stranger's body. Vehiron could see the taut skin of the male's hackles, twitching as a sign of mistrust. He did nothing to subjugate Goldry's uncertainty, even as he raised his tail like a flag. If it was a implied objection of some sort, Vehiron paid it no mind. Now was not the time to fuss over ranks. Now was the time for introduction, for forming connections. This branch of Tartok was but a riffraff gathering because no one knew each other. They were lacking unity. Vehiron knew of a surefire way to break the ice, but one-on-one meetings were nice, too. At least he could focus his attention on one wolf, and not a dozen.
           When Goldry turned to face him, he wasn't quite expecting the softness in his eyes – like he related to his sleeplessness. The infinitesimal smile that tugged at his lips drove home this fact. “Yeah. Cold, showery days make my joints ache.” He was so insouciant in this reveal, he secretly hoped Goldry would see this as a sign of trust. He did not expect the man to gush about every misfortune in his life, no. Heavens no! Just contributing to the conversation would be enough.
           “And to just get it out of the way: I go by Vehiron.” A name that meant nothing in these lands, he begrudgingly noted. Perhaps someday...

Table by Noire

In his youth, Vehiron was far more ascendant, rising to each and every challenge thrown his way. He was quite accomplished, at the age of three years. By then, he had many children and a reputable rank within his band. He was infamous back home. Most notably for philandering...and murdering; dark deeds that still haunt him at night. But despite the fact that he was an educated hit man, it was his high-and-mighty attitude that got him into the most trouble. In other words, it pissed off a lot of his alleged 'friends.' He was ousted from his position of power and threatened with the slaughter of his brood. Because of this, he had been a man of many enemies, and very little friends. Perhaps that is why he did not respond to Goldry's posturing, for fear of history repeating itself...Though he led a different life now, the fright would always be there.
           And, well...he was in no condition to brawl, nor was this the best place. Vehiron would wait until the rainclouds went away to take up Goldry's implied challenge. Chatting up pack mates would not harm anyone, either. There were some things better spoken than through action.
           Goldry's patronym raised some questions. Was this Valko of importance? Is that why he introduced himself in such a way? Vehiron could not comprehend the meaning behind this. For all his intellectual prowess, he wasn't all that sharp when it came to different customs. He knew they existed, but this one was new.
           “Yeah, you're probably right,” he sighed, his gaze fixed on something past Goldry. “Can't sleep. Maybe it's because this division of Tartok is still so new? Makes me...antsy.” The truth, in all its dull glory. Vehiron shook his head, not knowing what to think of it. “Speaking of Tartok –” His azure-plum eyes zeroed in on Goldry's face, a keen interest lying in the depths of his stare. “– what compelled you to join? If you don't mind me asking, that is.”

Table by Noire

He hid nothing from Goldry, allowing this son of Valko to look into him without any indicant of vexation. While others would have seen this as a mark of rebelliousness, Vehiron could not be classified as the “others” – those whom swayed beneath their inherent aptitude. He possessed thought and emotion – the likes of which seem lost to Siku and Tonravik. But more significantly, he was genuine, unshrinking to lay bare his faults. If someone wanted to take advantage of these faults, then so be it. I am not afraid.
           Something made Goldry backtrack, letting the humdrum alibi of winter's approach trail off into silence. This alone caused unfeigned solemnity to show through his worn out mug. However, such expression was quickly snuffed out by the words that followed. Goldry joined Tartok because he wanted to do good.What constituted as good, though? Was this desire to do good from some moral standing? It was commendable enough to have a goal, but would this goal be enough to tie him to Tartok indefinitely? How would Tonravik react to this proclamation? He did not know...but she would not be hearing this from his lips.
           “I see.” A neutral acknowledgment, along with a neutral stare. Vehiron was neither with or against Goldry's reasoning. He was set in his ways, weathered by time and circumstance. It was not his place to speak out against Goldry, for the future was unpremeditated. Who knew what Goldry's time within the Tartok ranks would be like – if it would change him for better, or for worse. Vehiron would eagerly await that day where he was not so ambivalent in his ideals. However, he was no less a wolf in Vehiron's eyes, for he has been in a similar position one too many times, which brought him to the likes of Tartok.
           “I joined Tartok because no place suits me better – mentally, physically, or emotionally.” Vehiron got a little closer to the edge upon which his pack mate stood, looking down at the misted underworld. It was evident that the cogs in his brain were in motion by the silence that suddenly slipped between them. Abruptly – as if to reassure him – a breeze combed through his fur, growing in strength every couple of seconds. The mountains many caverns seemed alive with the wind, it's hollowness echoing loudly within his ears. The random zephyr died down. It was then Vehiron turned to Goldry, inquisitive and open. “And...I really want to prove myself.” To who, to what? He expected these questions, and he was more than willing to share...

Table by Noire

The allowance to come closer – it was a pennant of trust. The proximity between them was only allowed by Goldry's say-so. Should his company have voiced dissatisfaction, Vehiron would have respected that. He had not, so the taupe warrior gave Goldry a gentle wag of his tail, solidifying their camaraderie. It was new, but it was there. Question was, would it last?
           “No, you're fine,” he said in passing, shaking his cranium. At least Goldry was not being blatantly impetuous in his prying. The man waited to ask the questions when they mattered most. Not that Vehiron was excessively tight-lipped. He just did not respond well to force regarding the machinations of his mind (or his past).
           “How? By settling down and startin' a family. To whom?” A darkness befell him, whittling away at his bearing and mood. It was not depression that made his throat constrict, but concern. “To myself.” He looked away from Goldry, glaring out at the failing light of day. He had a lot on his plate, and he was positive it was going to hunt him down until he was dead and rotted.
            “Goldry, I –” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat. “I've got an – an inglorious past.” It was here where he meagerly locked his eyes back onto Goldry's face. “I did many things I'm not proud of, but I did most of it for a reason. My actions were justified.”
           It was all a ploy though, wasn't it? A ploy? No...no! There was a kernel of truth in there somewhere. He bled, he killed, for that truth! A truth that's done you no favors. Aside from planting a giant bulls eye on his back? Yeah, no favors. He sighed loudly, some of the tension leaving his body.
           “No amount of “I'm sorry” could forgive what I've done, so...I'm trying to move on.” No redemption. “Live a good life. Work on the good things I want in my life.
            “Sorry for gushin', by the way. I'm an ass for dumpin' all that on you...” He did a one eighty and jestingly said, “Your turn.” Well, that was one way to lighten the mood.

Table by Noire

No trust could be gained without trust in turn. It was as simple as that. Vehiron could understand Goldry's diffidence, but he must face everyone with hesitancy. It was an unfortunate venue of life, one in which he was well versed in. Honestly, his haste to make brand-new allies stemmed from the loss of his old cronies. Their treachery left him with nihility. That nothingness gaped and pulsed like an abscessed wound, and that wound birthed a seedling. It was a seedling of dubiety betwixt the two of them, but it was those assholes doing, not Goldry's. Trust is like a mirror. Once its broken, the cracks are still visible. Vehiron was trying to mend those cracks by meeting other wolves, but it was...difficult. Harder than he was letting on.
           Goldry's emotions brewed artlessly, and that's what drew Vehiron in. The man did not keep down his feelings in order to seem distant, or to put up a facade that would only push him (and others) away. Even when he saw an inkling of pity (or was it suspicion?), Vehiron did not take it personally because this was thin ice they were treading on here. Why would he blow up in Goldry's face about conveying an emotion that was genuine? He would much rather see commiseration than impassivity, or worse yet: no emotion at all.
           “Yeah, I know,” he abjectly whispered with a tiny grin. “Bad habit.”
           He was not expecting Goldry to take up the torch. Surprise colored his features, but he listened to what the man had to say without interruption. Vehiron would have respected his reticence, but he went on about how he broke off from his pack in order to start his own family, only to relocate because his native land was no place for growing minors. Humans plagued his homeland...or maybe they were gone now? Nevertheless, it was reason enough to get the hell out of dodge. Nothing good ever came of humans.
            “Then may your future be filled with repose.” Had he an ale, he would have lifted it to toast. Instead, he would have to settle with a sharp nod of his head. Silence settled between them as if a storm had passed. Vehiron made no attempt to converse further, complacent to watch the sun ascending in the east with his pack mate.