Dragoncrest Cliffs We can bow 'cause our music's warmer than blood

Vercingetorix's arrival elicited only the sideways tilt of Ephraim's snout at first; he was feeling melancholy and wasn't sure he could entertain the suave Cheka's normal attitude today. The black-haired wolf settled nearby and they lapsed into silence just long enough for Ephraim to let his thoughts drift once more, and then finally his superior spoke. It wasn't what he expected. He'd taken note of the smells permeating Drageda recently and noted that Vercingetorix's was heavily mixed among them. Though they stirred strange feelings in him, he wasn't compelled by them, but he knew that his companion was playing some part in what was going on. He just didn't know exactly how it worked.

Yeah, he said unconvincingly, then sighed and admitted, no, not really. Having trouble sleeping. There were a million questions he wanted to ask about the fight and war in general, chief among them being why they were sitting around not doing anything and letting their enemies recover, but what he chose to ask was, it gets better, right? As he spoke, he turned his head so his champagne eyes searched the other man's face imploringly. He trusted Vercingetorix and would believe whatever he said, but it was clear he hoped the answer was yes.

It had to get better, he was sure it had to. Otherwise how could wolves like Antumbra and Dio and Verx himself keep their heads in battle? He couldn't be doomed to dissociation every time he fought for Drageda. That couldn't be his fate.