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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.”