[ P ] At the Crossroads

Since the war had ended, nothing was the same. Despite his prowess on the battlefield, instead of the appreciation Alastor had earned, what he deserved, the soldier had been sent to guard the invisible border between civility and barbarism. The thrill of violence had ended, and Adamh had caved to pressure, despite a resounding victory for the Imperials. Now, there are two kingdoms where only one should exist. Perhaps the greatest injustice of all? It was boring there. Intensely dull, mind-numbing. Alastor hadn’t been his usual ebullient self lately.

With too much free time to ruminate, his skull was sometimes filled with pleasant memories of the battlefield that inspired an eerie smile. The expressions on filthy Highlander faces when they realized their time was up. Their desperate screams, pleas for mercy that they would not receive from Alastor. Ah, the good old days… But the thrill was gone now, and he had yet to find something to replace it.

On other occasions, however, the dark brute was consumed by an entirely different dilemma than his current station. It was more than the tedium of his current lot that troubled Alastor. He often thought of his sister, who had been missing since the conclusion of the war. Was she dead? A prisoner of the vermin from the Highlands? Kept away from her family by some bitter loser…

That someone would dare to touch Sienna was an outrage that could not be tolerated. His sister. The sole reminder that once upon a time, Alastor had a mother, and a life with some semblance of normalcy. But once his mother was gone, and only a newborn child remained, Alastor had sworn then and there that Sienna’s life should be nothing less than perfection. An unconscious growl rumbled like distant thunder within his throat. Someone would pay dearly…

The solitary snarl stopped suddenly, however, when he detected the smell of a stranger. Ah, but this was no stranger, unless the man’s senses deceived him. Alastor’s old smile crept along his lips, revealing stained fangs beneath them as scarlet gems searched the distance for a familiar pale pelt of beige.



@Falltore

coding: gutz

He was not often for journeys as long and as arduous as the march to Maiden’s Braid, at least not since his last military engagement what felt like so many years ago. And yet… even under the steel-tongued berating the young squire received from Falltore, he surmised what had been said was the truth. Alastor Huxley wishes to make you acquaintance, sir. Alastor… from officer’s training, yes? How long it had been since they had crossed paths. It was not often that wolves such as they, two accomplished, ambitious masters of their craft, served together in any capacity. They were cut from the same cloth, similar habits, similar beliefs, similar… tendencies. That naturally would have made most friends… but not them. From day one, they were embittered with each others’ existences. Each one had to be right, to be better, to be in charge. They accomplished much, impressed many, yet their rivalry, perhaps hatred, for one another, all but guaranteed that they would never see battle with one another. And so they had not. But as time wore on… Falltore came to respect, even almost admire Alastor. After all, he had what so few in the army seemed to really possess: a vision, one rooted in both reality, and audacity.

He had taken the trek to see his old training partner not for any of this, alas, but for the sake of one other tidbit the sniveling squire had told him of. Alastor was a Lieutenant-Major now, assigned to a border outpost to live out his days. Some saw it as punishment, a dreary home far away from home for most, living in constant fear of attack or duty. But for those who desired action, to be away from those of political scheming, it was perfect. He wondered often, why was it Alastor, and not himself, who was given such a promotion? Surely if the injuries had not occurred, Falltore might as well have been a Colonel by now, if Alastor were to be the very same rank he occupied. It was almost amusing… but then again, Falltore wondered, almost cynically, perhaps there was a severe shortage of wolves to call upon these days. They’d promote just about anybody with experience, it seemed. For Alastor to have achieved almost as much as he had, seemingly, warranted a deep-seeded need to hear it from the very wolf himself. That, and perhaps reminisce on what old times could have perhaps been.

He had made it to the top of the well-worn, idyllic overlook path long used by wolves, now covered white in snow, when he caught a familiar scent in the air. And then, it grew nearer, as the silent sound of footsteps came upon him. He might have blended well into the snow, if not for his piercing red eyes, and darker accents. But make no mistake, he recognized the wolf before he even spoke. A mutual smile was returned, though much more modest than Alastor’s. After all, the salve made showing such unnecessary emotion all that more difficult. “Lieutenant Major Alastor Huxley,” a friendly, albeit embittered Falltore quipped, “four words that I swore I would never utter in all my years.” Kindness, too, was unnecessary between two wolves of such stock.

The man’s crimson sights were vivid, set against the white winterscape. They were not unlike Alastor’s blood-red eyes. But the two were not brothers, despite this similarity. He received a smile in response to his own as they approached each other, and Falltore was the first to break the silence: “Lieutenant Major Alastor Huxley, four words that I swore I would never utter in all my years.” Impossibly, his jagged smile seemed to grow. “Likewise, undoubtedly, Lieutenant Major Falltore.” He punctuated the title with a tinge of derision, drawing out the man’s solitary name with a silver tongue. They were on equal footing now, the same rank, just as they had started out years before.


Falltore. One word. No surname. It had always struck Alastor as strange, though he had never cared enough to inquire about the man’s family. He assumed only that they were commoners. He could further hypothesize that Falltore’s origins, at some point in the distant past, were northerners, for his coat was not one worn by traditional Mainlanders. Nonetheless, Alastor regarded the familiar brute with begrudging respect and suspicion. He knew well what the other was capable of. Falltore had always been ambitious, intrepid in his endeavors. Frustrating for his similarity to Alastor himself, though he was loath to admit it to himself or to others.


“Well, well! What an unexpected surprise, to meet an old friend all the way out here. I haven’t seen you in quite some time now…” The words were unspoken, but the insinuation lay thinly veiled between them, and a pointed look that seemed to ask, Where were you? Alastor hadn’t caught a glimpse of Falltore on the battlefield, nor at any point during the long-anticipated war, the very purpose they had trained for. Alastor himself had been present, though his hulking form hardly showed the efforts of his labors. While many had been mained, scarred, disfigured… Alastor had only sustained minor injuries. He had been there. But he had been seldom on the defense, fangs faster than the Jacobite filth that he had laid waste to.


Alastor’s invisible crown was held high with characteristic pride. The unnerving smile never faded from his muzzle, even as he spoke: ”To what do I owe the pleasure of this encounter?” As the words escaped from his grin, his head tilted curiously, turning slowly and further off-kilter with every syllable uttered. "Or is it simply my lucky day?"



@Falltore

coding: gutz

Conflict comes naturally to beasts such as wolves. As far as it is known, they are the only creatures that so willingly lie and deceive one another about trivial matters. Friendship, loyalty, honor… to an extent no wolf is free from this sin. The only question was, how much a wolf is believed when they speak to one wolf. Alastor’s friendly tone and words, punctuated by brief silences, might indicate to an outsider that there was nothing but kind, warm friendship between the two. But reading into the tension, and perhaps being aware of their history, there were so many times that the same wolf might see them as bitter rivals, hated enemies of each other. But what so many failed to understand that this was the duality of wolvenkind, and to deny it was to perpetuate the great lie: that wolves speak the truth, that someday, there will be no such thing as conflict. All that Alastor and Falltore had between them was a shared outlook on this world of theirs, and perhaps that made them convenient to one another by association, yet full confidantes to the naive alone.

Still, despite what was only the inherent truth to their nature, Falltore found Alastor’s presence beyond amusing. Even if he lied, he need not put up so much of a façade as he usually did. He could, perhaps, be as close to himself as he could. As the ember-furred male strode forth, he examined his old associate with those icy blue eyes of his, inspecting him as if it were a trick of some kind. What did he know, Falltore asked himself, wondering if news of his unfortunate… condition had reached him. He could perhaps surmise as much from his appearance, his head covered in the amount of salves and bandages that it was, the only manner of keeping the unspeakable pain at bay. But so much as a scratch on Alastor, as far as he could see. Still, the implication of what his associate asked was not lost on him, nor was the long amount of time it had been between their last meeting.

“Sixteen months, almost to the day as I recall,” Falltore punctuated, in return, “I believe I was a Captain by that point, and you a mere Lieutenant. But as you can see… we are not the same as we had once been.” War had a tendency of changing wolves, it was said. That, or it brought out their real nature. Falltore had always been thought to be a cruel bastard, a perfectionist, a wolf that got his way no matter the cost. Alastor, perhaps, was in the same vein. He had heard things about Alastor’s abilities in combat, his leadership. He often would laugh to hear of it, knowing Alastor as he did. After all… he saw him to be the superior wolf of the two, only his ascent was marred by what had happened. The Jacobites had seen to that. Had it not happened, he might have been King by this point, if Alastor were to be a Lieutenant Major. “At least,” Falltore continued, “that is what they tell me to believe.”

But yes, the purpose of their visit. Continuing his inspection of his old comrade, Falltore took note of his form, his appearance, almost in a state of disbelief. Alastor was right about one thing when it came to their meeting, their encountering of one another was most unexpected. After all, some in lofty places felt that having the two of them on assignments was, as one senior Colonel once put it, “reckless”. He never forgot that wolf, who had said that. He wonder if he were to now their meeting today, here and now, if he would lose sleep over it. The way, surely he lost sleep over his capitulation to the rebellion.

“I suppose my command employs a number of wolves whose ability to provide me accurate mission about you is… acceptable,” Falltore continued, with a smile, “as you might recall, I was reassigned to the home front, rooting out remnant Jacobite and Voxi cells, keeping the King’s peace. I was given command of my own division, the Eternal Promise.” One of the few wolves, might be added, that seemed unwilling to give up the fight against the rabble, the mob, the dregs. Sometimes those in high places failed to see the importance of the work he undertook, and the manner in which it needed to happen. But then again, he did not know the Highlanders the way he knew them. For he was no politician. “And then I hear that you had been promoted to Lieutenant Major… and had to see it for myself,” Falltore continued, “a stellar combat record, scores of Jacobites disposed of… all without mistake or embarrassment. Is it all true, then?”

Pale azure sights inspected the shadowy soldier,
who was not ignorant to the other’s roaming eyes. The condition of his old comrade was… well, rather pitiful, though he declined to say it outloud. Bandages covered whatever horrors beneath that now marred Falltore’s visage. The sole survivor of his former brigade, left torn and shredded and meant for the grave. Falltore spoke: “Sixteen months, almost to the day as I recall.” An onyx brow perked curiously above scarlet sights at the knowledge that Falltore had evidently been counting the days since their last encounter. Alastor had half a mind to wonder if his longtime peer had some other sort of admiration for him, a thought that tugged the corners of his lips ever wider. The other spoke of titles long since abandoned in favor of more prestigious ranks. It was true; neither wolf was the same as the brash conscripts they had been in their younger days with something to prove. “... At least, that is what they tell me to believe.” Alastor, being who he was, couldn’t resist: ”Inclined to believe what we are told, are we?”

With a smile of his own, Falltore had continued. The soldier bragged of the new group he now commanded. The Eternal Promise. Had he been a different man, Alastor might have offered congratulations for this esteemed position. Instead, a derisive chuckle escaped. ”I must admit I am rather surprised they put you in charge of another division.” He let the unspoken linger in the air between them. Alastor knew he deserved similar accolades, troops of his own to lead. Instead, he had this. A desolate border and an appetite for violence not yet sated. Meanwhile, Falltore had led men to their deaths, lived to tell the tale, and received a promotion. A curious thing.

Alastor’s suspicions swelled as Falltore rambled off the dark soldier’s accomplishments, as if he had been in attendance to witness him in his finest performances. Such acclaim, from such a wolf, was certainly unexpected. What was the intention of this flattery? ”All of that, and then some,” he responded with an air of gravitas he made no attempt to conceal. The scars that he had earned were not severe enough to show through his gray pelt. "I'm afraid to say I've heard no stories of your valor in the final battle, old friend." There was no lingering trauma from what he had experienced in the war: he was unbothered by the number of ghosts that haunted his memories, or the cries of agony that echoed in his dreams. No – this was why he had trained so hard, for so many years. Why he defied his parents’ desire that he follow in his father’s paw prints to become a lawyer.

His focus fixed upon Falltore, he regarded him with skepticism. But when all was said and done, the two stood, like-minded individuals. Simmering ambitions. Perhaps this meeting was to be a convergence of reciprocity? ”This division of yours. What is its intended purpose?” The undercurrent of his inquiry: What is your purpose, now that the war had ended?



@Falltore

coding: gutz

The juxtaposition of Alastor’s playful sarcasm with his inflammatory remark regarding the circumstances surrounding Falltore’s disfigurement led to quite a rollercoster of emotions, at least internally. He was never one to believe everything he was told, that much was obvious. He regularly did as he felt necessary and dealt with the consequences as they so occurred. It was, after all, much easier to ask forgiveness than permission in his line of work. He played his part, he played it well, but he was no tin soldier, and that was what Adamh needed above all. “Oh my dear friend,” Falltore sarcastically responded, “General Faust is a master of strategy, and all his Colonels are an extension of himself. Surely, you do not mean to imply they are misguided. I ought to report you for such a remark.” He had his reservations about certain aspects of leadership. There had always been a tension between him and them, one that had festered over the years, even as he moved up the ranks. He had always resented them for resenting him, and he never forgot any of the things they said about him behind his back. And yet, he served, and would serve, valiantly.

But as for the other things that Alastor spoke of, they were far less indulging. A stabbing reminder of what had transpired but almost a year ago, when he led his sortie north and was ambushed. It was low-hanging fruit, especially for the brute’s sly tongue. And of course, with regards to Alastor’s combat record, and the arrogant manner in which he extolled it, he saw fit to remind himself of the lack of Falltore’s explicit accomplishments. At least, as he so knew them. Even if this one was far more insulting by some standards, it stung far less than did Alastor’s previous remark. After all, Alastor seemed to see the pathway to glory down the one, same, tired path that every other wolf seemed to trod, in their attempts to work their way up the ranks. But Falltore saw his opportunities elsewhere, and that was perhaps the sole reason why he had gotten to where he was, in spite of everything that had happened to him. Lesser wolves, especially those that had achieved the rank of Lieutenant Major only due to having defeated a bunch of starving peasants and exaggerated to the right fool, would never understand.

Still, the damage was done, and although Falltore was well practiced to retort in as polite a tone as he might muster, the wounds evident from the words were just as painful as his physical ones. “I… understand your surprise on the subject, Alastor,” replied Falltore, with gritted teeth, “I suppose my skillset has always been unique, compared to yours and others. While… some… were out and about fighting poorly trained peasants and pups, I was tasked with rooting out the agitators behind all our realm’s conflicts.” Voxi, Thieves Guild, Jacobites, he’d gone after everything and everybody. He had his own reputation, one he was proud to have, of doing anything necessary to get what he wanted, even if it meant crossing the line. He had done so frequently, and with impunity, and it was perhaps his fearlessness that had earned him his second chance, if Alastor seemed fit to call it that. “As for my… condition,” Falltore continued, “such is the cost of war. I paid my price, as did my soldiers… but the intelligence I gave provided the location of Freeman’s Foretress, and a location of Jacob’s camp. A pity, though, that as I spent months in the care of medics, unable to fight… that the officers entrusted to defeat the Jacobites managed to lose half of Rionnach, as well as the war.”

His contempt for the outcome of the war, to date, was a bile he could never swallow. Was this, perhaps, the valor in the final battle that Alastor spoke of? A glorious loss that threw away every chance they had to smother this rebellion in its crib, and legitimized the illegitimate government? How he still heard those pleading, weakened words of King Adamh as he begged for peace. How much was swayed on the outcome of but one battle, one that if he were apart of, would have been so easily won. But that was in the past now, and try as he might, he had to move forward. And that, perhaps, was what the Eternal Promise was for. “Oh… nothing too special,” Falltore mused, rolling his tongue as he did, “My division intends to remove all foreign influence from Rionna, from any Jacobites seeking to continue the fight south of our new border, to Voxi challenging the natural order. That, and investigating the many crimes committed by Jacobite soldiers during the war, and apprehending them.” There was, of course, much more than that, though it might be in the works. Eternal Promise enlistees routinely scored high on evaluations, or so he was told, making them what he believed to be one of the finest fighting forces in the Imperial Army. It was surely, by far, the most serious one at this current moment. “It surely beats… well, shall we say… being assigned to a remote outpost on the border. Funny, isn't that where you are now?”

The hint of mockery dripped from Falltore’s tones as he addressed Alastor as his dear friend… But Alastor was not offended. On the contrary, every sarcastic syllable seemed to spread his smile ever wider, impossibly wide across his shadowed muzzle. ”Surely, you do not mean to imply they are misguided. I ought to report you for such a remark.” Alastor already understood: Falltore was as unscrupulous a man as he was. And he knew that Falltore had… interesting ways of approaching his work, his outlook. With a glimmer in his unnerving red eyes, Alastor responded in dark tones: ”That is precisely my implication.” The threat of being reported was duly ignored. He thought of his own superior… Sylvain Bartosz. To fight under her command was beneath him. An indignity. Just because they wore a higher rank, did not necessarily mean that they were correct. The war had proven as much. Too many bad decisions, too much mercy offered…

Through gritted teeth, Falltore described his unique skill set, something that the man believed set him apart from the rest – including Alastor. Of course Falltore thought the world of himself. He always had. And Alastor was no better, if not marginally worse. ”I was tasked with rooting out the agitators behind all our realm’s conflicts.” Unable to resist, the dark brute quipped, ”And how did that work out for you? No more agitators left after Falltore was through with them, one assumes.” The other proceeded to speak of his condition – a word choice that inspired a lighthearted laugh. ”Oh, my dear, dear friend, if only you had been there to change the tides! Surely, the outcome would have been entirely different, should you have been there to claim victory for us all.”

At the mention of loss, even still, that characteristic smile threatening to chip away. No one was satisfied with how everything had transpired or the ultimate results of the long anticipated war. Some were less inclined to speak those frustrations aloud, for fear of undermining their regal leader, or perhaps for fear of naming how purposeless it had been in the end. Lives lost. And for what? The splintering of lands that belonged together, under the rule of one? But Alastor had enjoyed himself nonetheless, and he would be ready for a second war that inevitably must follow the first.

The mention of Voxi earned a derisive chuckle from the iron-clad brute. Those do-gooders had amounted to nothing in the grand scheme of things, had made not one iota of difference in the war. The battles were still waged. The dead were still buried, or left to rot in the autumn sun. But the way Falltore came for him was certainly not missed. The flick of an ebony-rimmed ear was the only inclination that he was bothered at all by the insinuation. ”...Funny, isn't that where you are now?” He hummed thoughtfully. ”And you, as well, it seems!” With a hint of glee, Alastor pointed out the futility of trying to stamp out the lingering traces of Jacobite filth. ”You’ve been tasked with another impossible mission, it seems. I wonder why they would do such a thing to you? Tasks that cannot conceivably be accomplished… Even with a second doomed horde at your command. I hope that they are not setting you up for another failure, Falltore.” Naturally, he had to mention the heinous outcome of Falltore’s previous foray into leadership. His expression was one of feigned concern. For his dearest friend.


@Falltore

coding: gutz