Swiftcurrent Creek LET HER GO, BOYS | join

"No," He was quick to offer this reply to her. And it was a fair examination of this rather unbecoming first impression. His brow quirked in thought, and as it came natural to him, impulse drove deeper sentiments from mind. "I don't expect anything from anyone." And this was quite true. It was one of many things he'd learned in watching his compulsive, and rather trigger-happy father -- a wolf, who perhaps would have been better of his parents to compare with the titian she-beast. She'd the look of his kind mother; but it was quite clear in her retort that she had the heart of the wolf he'd both feared and respected. He delayed little next, in speaking. They were offered evenly, without much flare. And this, you should know, was no easy task. "Expectations often breed discontentment." Heston expected great things, he hoped for even more. He often prayed for miracles, and was met with hardship.

His teeth gently clicked against each other as he'd reconsidered their exchange. He'd done little, after all, in impressing the leader of the Creek. Hell, he hadn't even learned the ways of their clan. For all he knew, they were a gang of pillaging outlaws -- but, even then, such compulsions were lingering in his veins. In either case, the decision had been affirmed as the seconds ticked by. He'd found a piece of his heart there, and he was willing to concede foolishness for realism. His father would have offered strength and skill; he would challenge, and press for some opulent display of his physical ability. Hawthorne L'amour was no gunslinger; he was far from a hard bitten warrior. But he had tact, he had a mindfulness for peace and diplomacy. "What I am willing to do though, is this:" A sharp inhale was taken into his lungs as his posture righted itself (though, not to appear dominant: only confident, and able). "I implore you to consider the wealth in accepting a tired traveler into your flock."

A tongue slipped against his lips, considering -- he'd no way of knowing all the things she'd wanted or needed to hear. But, Hawthorne was never a liar. He never withheld, and candid as ever offered the alpha a coffin nail: "Can I pledge what's left of my youth, and many years to you? Perhaps not." He was no soothsayer; he could not gaze into a reflection and catch premonitions in ripples. There was no way of knowing what would happen a year from that day, or even a month. But there was one thing he was certain of. "But I will earn my keep -- idleness is not a trait to be desired, after all."