This bandying of words was becoming tiresome to the point of frustrating. Macmillian had yet to display any signs of subservience or respect, and although caution was certainly recognition of possible danger it was also a reaction of prey. As he himself was studied, Fenrir fixed his golden scowl on his adversarys eyes, surveying what he could of the thinner man through his peripheral vision. He could hear Rikkets story once more, and the memory of the lads torment at the hands of this man raised a snarl to his lips.

Now the teeth were in full bear, the low light of the tavern glistening against saliva-coated fangs. A long scar that traveled across his right cheek was made deeper by the sudden grimace, and the craggy wrinkles that furrowed between his brows cast solid shadows over his eyes, so that they were entirely masked but for two glints of the internal fires of wrath.

Your concern is admirable, but perhaps its misdirected. Ifchildrenfollowed the set rules there would be no need for retribution, and, ultimately, concern.

Rules again. The witch had spoken of rules as well. Apparently Macmillian was in need of the same lecture that hed given his attempted captor.

Fenrirs voice was deep in the grumbling growl range when he spoke, making his words sound even more unwilling and the English language more uncooperative than usual. Such was his rising anger. They follow the rules of nature. Youre suggesting therere higher rules? Feh! Those are the rules that guard cruelty then? Yours are? Those are the rules that bless torture? D'anam on diabhal!


He paused, gripping the lower rung of the barstool tighter with his calloused toes. Every muscle in his stocky body was prepared for the swiftest of movements, and he hunched his shoulders, fluffing up his thick robes thus in an instinctive move to try and appear larger than he already was. Your rules coddle the weak. They do nothing to help your people really survive. They do not challenge. Your rules are false.