Rhoa Vezhven

His thoughts could have taken Rakharo in so many different directions, all of them as uncertain as the future of his own life, if he hadn't been interrupted by a scent that silently dirfted to his reach. A scent that he recognized instantly, but not from one of his own people. It was a scent he'd gotten from Zoratto, the newest addition to his Khalas, and he knew who the scent belonged to. The boy had talked about his captor, the one Rakharo had freed him from with his admission to his own Khalas.

The golden Khal turned around, with his tail held high and his chest muscles flexed in a display of dominance, ready to behold the, presumably, veteran Khal that planned to take over his Khalas. He was old. No doubt about that. But his appearance left a great deal to be desired. A haunched, limping elder who wanted to take over his throne. What a joke.

Crude dissatisfaction showed clearly in Rakharo's eyes as he met old Rhanno's. And he didn't say a word. He just stared, looking up and down at the elder, examining every scarred inch of his body.