< I feel your pain >

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With the reappearance of Calhoun and Edith, and the allocation of Hawkings' duty to assist in patrols, the duke no longer felt tethered and bound to Elks Crown and roved westwards where he already was alerted to the migrating smells of accumulating wolves. 





A shallow river divided the edge of their territory from the one adjacent, and he cautiously took to the archway of ruins that would ease his path over it. When reaching the other side, he looked back, toward home. It would be the first time he set his paw upon any uncharted ground. 

And he moved into the winds luring. Tempting him toward a second ruin...

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 The Harbinger is a beast that keeps himself occupied. His patrols are frequent, understanding that this claim is a new one and that territory markers take time to set up. 

 He is rewarded with the scent of a newcomer. Picking up the trail, he follows it until a young male wolf comes into view. “Good Evening.” Madmortigan greets. “Welcome to Labyrinthian.”

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Much akin to the remnant piles of rubble that were found in the nook of Elkshires' least popular locations, this structure stood much taller, more imposing than the tumbled wall of stone he last lay eyes on. He padded closer, ears outstretched to the dusk-kissed heavens with intrigue.

As his paws began their scouting, a benevolent greeting broke his footfalls. 

Warwick turned to face its origins, ready to return the evening's blessing. But his voice faltered, and his eyes swallowed the mismatch of disgrace that tainted the wolf that welcomed him. 

He took no pause with his decision of ill judgement; his eyes immediately narrowed and his ears followed suit in his changed demeanour, both tilting backwards. But ever the well-mannered duke, a very curt response was returned. 'Good evening'.

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 As the Harbinger approaches the stranger's scent drifts to him on the evening breeze. 

 Madmortigan is greeted with the same disdain and grimace another near-yearling had given him not long ago. This teenager smells much like the last. 

 “I'm honored to receive a Déorwine to my door. My name is Madmortigan. And you?” It is a guess, an educated hypothesis strung together through the evidence of sense.

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Surely they jest? The look of surprise was evident on his face, with a frown eradicating such thoughts. What relative already visited the sinner yet none had forewarned him or others of the apparent archfiend neighbour a stone's throw away?

The perilous stranger encroached, and Warwick remained as he was. Composed. Refraining from that itch to spew venom in the shape of judgement and superiority. Merely stretching his neck to elevate himself taller, boastful of his grandeur. 'My name is Warwick Déorwine, son of Queen Célnes of Elkshire. But, how do you know of us?', the first of the dukes' curiosity rather than who Madmortigan was, honoured or not.

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 “I met another Déorwine not long ago by the name of Edith.” Madmortigan replies, giving the information freely. 

 His stature remains neutral despite the yearling's posturing and swiveled ears. “We had a pleasant chat.” 

 The Harbinger studies the self-proclaimed prince, curious. “What can I do for you today?”

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At first the boy inwardly cursed his sister, a twine of trust broken and cut by her failure to reiterate such a meeting. Maybe her excursions had brought her further away from her brother in more ways than just distance? A sad thought he tucked away for now. 

And then he smirked briefly at Madmortigans perception of their encounter.





'I'm sure it was pleasant'. He hoped he knew her still too well, though, that their High Elk, their faith and their beliefs would still be strong at the forefront of her mind in a replicated version as he at this moment -- the only difference, was the duke would sway more to withhold his tongue. 

Despite the man's agreeable etiquette, there was an eeriness and something else Warwick could not place. But he could not deny the gentleman was courteous so far, despite his mother's stories of them. He allowed a few seconds to think when asked a second question. His conscience ceaselessly shrieked to turn tail and leave and not entertain nor grace this abomination with any more of his time than he already had surrendered.

But his curiosity shoved his conscience into a brick wall, always outweighing it.

'Tell me of this... Labyrinthian'.
 

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 “We are an ancient order that worships the Wolf. We believe in self-betterment and the pursuit of knowledge so that we might embrace our highest selves.”

 Warwick - a prince of earthen hues, rich and bronzed like Edith. He remembers the little mistress' harsh words, her relished scorn. “Do you believe I am a sinner, too?”

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He could not hide his intrigue, ears now realigned atop his crown, listening to the structure of a different pack and their own faith and values. It was a revelation since this would be the first time he met with another group, of separate cultures, yet this still made sense. 

'And you as their leader?', it wasn't a judgemental question, in this instance, it was for clarification since there was no title beyond the name given.

What he asked next, undoubtedly stemmed from his sister's unfiltered words. Unintentionally, Warwick's eyes strayed from the amethyst gems of Madmortigans and roamed his body, the contours of his legs, their chest, their flank, all that was naked and unhidden. He thought of his siblings, whilst they were not draped in such a generous amount of the foreboding white that this wolf displayed, he could not bring himself to label any of them as sinners.

He thought back to one of the many teachings his mother gave, that not all were sinful, not all were drained of colour justifiably, and whilst it was not for Warwick to question His reasons, he also needed to make his own judgement. 

The duke's citrine eyes reached back to the harbinger's own again, conclusively. 

No, was the truth should Madmortigan explore his eyes.

'Should I have reason to believe so?'.

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 Madmortigan appraises the youth. Warwick seems the picture of confidence - ready but untested. He wonders how much of the world the yearling has seen. 

 “I led the order, inheriting it after my mother and father passed. When I perished with my siblings The Wolf gave us new life and we woke here. Labyrinthian lives on because the Wolf wills it so.” Because he wills it so.

 “I am not who you fear me to be.” But words are flimsy to a firmly molded mind.

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He hummed pensively, a vibration navigating through his thickening voice, one that in time would deepen further as his age chased him. There was a mutual connection between the two males, and it was being acknowledged by him. 'Your God sounds as bountiful as our High Elk', was all he could muster though, still denying the dictator his trust.

He could not help the natural wave of chemistry though, there was an aura that Warwick was gravitating toward. Maybe because of their common standards, of excelling one's self, of striving to be the elite in their deity's eyes. 

But then the duke had opposing sentiments to Madmortigans' assumptions of him. 

'Alas, I hold no fears, Madmortigan. Least of all, of you', a tone enriched with steadiness, unwavering to solidify his untruth. Masking it well, because who were they to narrate his fears after all? It was not a threat, or intentionally raising a target upon his umber locks by stating such a bold declaration. But then a knowing tiny smile traced the duke's mouth because he knew what the harbinger meant. 

He moved on, 'How many reside here with you?'.

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 There's a slight in the Prince's words, as secret and sharp as a concealed dagger. 

 Five years of experience stare squarely into the young man's eyes. 

 Warwick is brave. 

 And foolish.

 “A fair handful, though our numbers grow.” Not as numbered as the 'many' his sister had so readily boasted, but healthy and rising. And while Madmortigan is typically loathe to indulge in the exaggerations of teenagers, he refuses to underestimate the Déorwine clan, infant-led or not.

 “Tell me how your people came to worship The High Elk.”

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In that brief moment of reveal, the duke then beheld the green scenery that tailgated Madmortigan, as if the numbers he spoke of were to unshadow themselves. But he still feigned that sturdiness in his demeanour. Unfaltering with any of his steps to not become exposed to the new acquaintance. 

The way Madmortigan was swift to move on though, told Warwick of a different story. Perhaps he wasn't being as honest which would not come as a surprise for someone that dressed fully in a cloak of sin, and there weren't the numbers he claimed.

'My ancestors bargained a pact with our deity. In exchange for His guidance, we are to protect His children, the sacred Elk that roam Elkshires sanctuary', the duke was still reserved in his words, choosing to give as little as possible. 

'It looks as though we are to be neighbours if you are taking up residence... here', he looked at the ruins. 'I shall return to Elkshire, to my mother. I am certain Queen Celnes will be wanting to make your acquaintance'. He held no emotion in his voice, no evidence of whether this bore good news to the harbinger or bad. 

The duke would tentatively turn, with no haste to his movements, to symbolise his imminent departure.

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