"Dominus-Law is not mine to disobey. I cannot kill what cannot belong to me. Not yet."

The Lord Volkor is a bitter, dark thing flanked by hound and heel from deep within the Volgoth den-hold. He lives in blood beneath it, in a pack subservient in jealous fiefdom and so vast that he could be no heir without envious slaughter.

Beneath ambition and envy crawl misfortune and frustration bathed in old rain. Loneliness befitting of any man playing lord-alpha to dead moors. Anger befitting of any Lord or man that detests the rules biting down on his throat.

"You've come again." He said; said biting, said with teeth. Over the moor-mist in the dark morrow, he always spoke to him first.

He wonders what Calix ever did do with all of his letters. How often his ink was turned to ash and fuel in warm Fellner hearths.

Did the words swear themselves to memory? Every one?

Volkor watches him with bristles raising painfully down his nape- shifting on his heels in learned anticipation of the abeyance to come. It would, like all their encounters, be earned slick in bruising and blood. Anticipation that drew saliva across blunt fangs.