Lone Star Mountain In your eyes, there's a heavy blue.

There is newfound strength and confidence within Talion, who stares at the older wolf with cold, calculating blue eyes. Hunger and the incredible need to protect his bounty is what gifts him this sense of security, though he knows full well he'd definitely have cowered out of sight had the newcomer been female. He is a terrible sight: vivid scarlet smears the alabaster of his muzzle and throat, swathes his chest and lower limbs, an almost manic glint in his sharp gaze. And yet, the stranger remains entirely neutral. He watches the peppered yearling quietly, and Talion probably would've found the whole situation a bit creepy if he were of his right mind.

The golden-pelted brute offered his title, and the young loner pricked an obsidian ear in curiosity. "Κέρβερος," he repeats in a familiar tongue, the first time he has spoken his mother's language in months. Although not fluent, the first words Talion had ever heard had been Greek, and to hear a name of its mythology both intrigued and terrified him at the same time. "The hell-hound," he said, recalling his father's teaching when he was a child and desperate to learn of the Nereides' background; "who guards the gates of the underworld." It is quite a moniker. Talion had been nameless throughout his first few months of life, dubbed merely "Vex" by the dam who despised him simply for being alive. Notturno had gifted the boy his true name, Talion, upon arrival to the male's quarters, a calling that bore no connection to his mother's lineage. "I am Talion Roux-Abrhen," he said, turning his frame to better look upon his latest acquaintance, and as he moved the crows swarmed the exposed flesh of the ram to pluck strips of meat in a frenzy of tearing and squawking. He kicks out at them with a hind limb, sending them scurrying and flapping out of reach again, and backed up to linger protectively over the dead ram while the birds glared at him from every direction.