Swiftcurrent Creek There is no way but up

The man stood at his request for him to leave—the stumble almost drawing the shadowrunner forward, but he did not, for not only did Gunnar catch himself, but Akavir did not imagine the man’s pride would settle for the creek Alpha to aide him in that moment.

Gunnar’s request was something that could have been admired by Akavir had he been younger himself—but now, in this moment, it was a man hoping to protect a youthful man that didn’t necessarily deserve it—or, so the verdict remained unsaid.

Would Gunnar offer his life also, for Germanicus, who had thought to place Silvertongue in servitude? He doubted the man knew—could not know—and thus, it seemed a naive wish to replace the draw of blood for another wolf among his ranks.

But he could never know—would never ask.

“Enough blood has been shed, I would think,” he noted to the man dryly—what he wanted was still unsure—but Wren had paid a price in blood, and it sounded as if she had done a number on the other guy. “And I would prefer to meet before winter,” he noted, as the man seemed to use his age now as a card to play—a victim of sorts, that he would not be here another season and to use him as a means for revenge if they so thirsted for it.

He was unimpressed. No apology given—no acknowledgement of what Wren had gone through. Mae’s nightmares—he heard them, waking her at night. No, Gunnar simply stated he was likely not long for this world, and that should they wish to take vengeance, it be on him… not his precious soldier.

He watched the man go, and as Wren remained still as a statue, his worried gaze turned to her, brows knitting together. “Patrol with me?” A distraction. Flimsy, at best. Eshe could fix her external wounds—had—but her internal ones? He did not know how to mend them.