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A grey paw outstretched towards the edge of his high working desk, dipping the tip of his feathery quill on the round cylindrical well of half-contained ink. Thrice the gesture for effect, the paw then motioned. Tiny black droplets dripped on sandy parchment as he struck the writing instrument down with a deliberate, caring gesture.

Reeve Doran settled with immediate focus, commitment. He had been on his seat for several days, constantly writing on the texts of his work without pause or rest. Night had descended quickly over the citadel. He noticed that it was a full moon this evening as the light shone through the bullseye window of the chamber, lighting up gently in its silvery brilliance.

The room that he was in was small, sparse and spartan. Many books collected over the years scattered about the scene as if a storm came and went. Some were stacked levelly high up from the height of a table. Others spread around in a mess he had no remit to clean in the future.

Doran was not bothered by this. He chose this room in particular to avoid just that. It was far away from the distraction of his ferocious, thick-headed wolfkin and annoyances. Besides its peaceful remoteness, other reasons benefited his work. One crucial aspect was the tranquil scenery of the place. The soft illumination from the many round windows above angling just enough light made his position more bearable.

His paw came to rest from writing as he quickly scanned the finished page. The measure of each given line was symmetrical into form, the words cursively brilliant. Finding satisfactory with the result, he let the ink dry for several more minutes before placing it with the rest of the others. And after that, he repeated all over again.

Write, copy, and repeat. Routine after routine. A repetition Doran found relaxing.

Pages, books and the smell of ink rested nicely his thoughts, smoothing his nerves. He studied books, rare texts that dated back centuries and longer. Even the forbidden ones were accessed only to a select few, the contents themselves too sensitive for the normal eyes to perceive.

As the head scribe to an honourable House, his vocation was to edit, copy and rework details and histories to the Ironwood name. A duty he'd do so with great relish. His latest charge was the arduous centuries-old tome belonging to Angron. Champion on the field, undefeated on every battle, the late wolf lord aspired fear and respect in his enemies, creating a legacy as the saga was full of fantastical stories narrated from start to finish of his life. One of the finest to House Ironwood.

The thoughtful mention of the word 'finest' made Doran's face twist in a contentious scowl. There was nothing fine about this man. Angron was a brute and a liar, a savage paradoxically to what was told from the saga. Doran knew this, or what pieces of them, from the collection accounts and reports he uncovered throughout the region. Quite surprising that he found them with so little time and effort on the discovery.

All in all, Angron was not what he was. A less honourable wolf and more a dishonourable rogue in life - a black stain to the House's name.

Doran expelled a breath, sighing sadly out loud. A learner of knowledge sought out the truth, vindicated past lives, and reshaped the future. He snorted. Such mental belief that he was right to seek everything out quickly burned entire families into ruin. Truth was a weapon, as more a deadly blow than any blade in paw.

Which reasoned for his position. Loyalty and respect, a role earned through action by matriarch Gerrie. Better her people be ignorant to the depravity of the truth than to let the innocence fall to the past that deserved to be buried. And that was what he was doing. Burying everything.

He would not disgrace the House and tarnish the reputation the Matriarch earned throughout the years. He would destroy any evidence, revise the sagas suitable to newer generations with promise over shame. The Ironwoods would be a name of legend, and he would do so gladly.

A faint knocking tap from the door caused Doran's paw to an abrupt halt. He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched skeptically in confusion. He took up from his seat.

"Who is here, this late at night?" Doran spoke to no one in particular, his voice barely comprehending. It was low and even, quite hoarse as if he spoke out for the first time in the longest time. He cleared his throat to repeat the question, now more transparent and firmer than before.

"You know who it is, Doran," A voice answered, soft and feminine yet hung a playful mischief behind her tone. Doran tensed, suddenly surprised at his given name. Moments had passed, recognition quickly dawned on him. He paced forward, grabbed fully at the doorknob and opened it.

Matriarch Gerrie Ironwood stood from the entrance, affronted in a hooded shroud of her robes. Tall as even the height as Doran, she had well-trimmed muscles built beneath the wear, and an eye-catching hilt of her curved blade sheathed beside her rounded hip. Unneeded for an invitation from Doran, she let herself inside the room, eyes already scanning.

"I see work continues apace." She treaded cautiously around the room, not wanting to trample on the books that lay around the floor

Doran, feeling unnerved by this sudden appearance, hesitated to answer and turned to look at her, his paws shaking at the edge of the door. He was made to close it, but a sudden jerk stopped the motion. Wrong-footed by this, he stared at the meaty paw that caught the entrance. He looked up, and then froze as something huge was present.

The warrior was a giant that towered over Doran and the matriarch. Silver moonlight revealed its deep bluish plate of armour, polished with a sheen of reflected light. Helmeted, it wore a predator's mask, and its black sockets for eyes bored down on the scribe. Doran felt its measurable stare, its contemptuous hostility. He struggled to close, but the weight behind the warrior's strength didn't budge.

"Norka," Gerrie spoke first before Doran could utter any alarm, her voice authoritarian. The armoured form stopped. She didn't turn. "That would be all, Norka. Remain outside and stand guard."

A long pause unsettled the room, and Doran grew unease at the tenuous silence. He wondered if he should just let the creature in despite the room's compact space. In the end, however, it made a sound that was close to a grunt, and then closed the door shut with an audible click.

Doran stared dumbfoundedly at the entrance, face incomprehensive. Questions began to mount. He wanted answers. There had never been a size of magnitude and stature other than the leader of the Iron Guard or the Great Clans of the Bear, but this one has far exceeded the appearance close to a giant. He rounded on the matriarch, eyes subtly demanding for answers.

Reading his thoughts, she answered stiffly, "A gift," then later, with her usual cheerfulness returning. "An offer from my sister-in-law. Good fellow. Perfect ideal bodyguard with few words." she turned, composed, but unhidden the smile of impish declaration. "Opinions?"

"Well, he's rather..." Doran was about to say, but words caught his throat as he saw the wolf matriarch peel back her cowl. Her black onyx eyes were matchable by her pristine fur, the face a handsome cast of perfect mould. The perfection was only ruined by a single scar jutted from her cheek and a chipped ear earned from a skirmish with the foul clanless bandits.

Some thought the flaws permanently shattered her attractiveness. For Doran, however, such views were trivial and pointless to argue. Gerrie was perfect. Beautiful and imperious, imperfection perfected through fire.

Mesmerized by the distraction, he murmured his thoughts aloud. "Remarkable." When he said it, realization struck him that flushed across his face in a deeper shade of red, inward panic spreading. He was made to correct himself, but stopped as the matriarch already shifted her attention elsewhere.

Resisting the urge to show relief on his face, Doran quickly fell beside her, his back hunched low, paws clasping together, rubbing them nervously. A bad childhood habit that bequeathed him. Gerrie came to his working desk, studying the contents of the saga, and then lifting the completed page to scan the contents. Seconds passed, then twenty, almost a minute until the matriarch's lips creased into a grin. She placed the page back on the table.

"Angron." She said, making the name sounded like a joke. Imperceptibly shaking her head, she turned. "Is this what you've been doing, Doran? Making a record to some impertinent fool?"

Doran's eyes widened. "My lady, Angron is a well-respected wolf to the House and the clan itself. He is..."

"An impertinent fool." The wolven matriarch repeated, firmly, plainly. No obvious trace of warning or venom from her voice. Doran came to relax somewhat by her plastered grin. Gerrie took up another page.

"My father told me much about Angron and his exploits." She summarised keenly to remember those childhood memories. "A less imaginative brute with lesser restraint for patience." Her grin widened. "I'm sure you know this as much as I do."

Doran had, and much more so in his discovery. "That I have, my lady," he said, admitting. He had no cause to lie to her. Not here. Not ever.

Gerrie chuckled. It was a throaty, floaty sound unmeant to come out from a lady. "You would, would you? You lived in it. All of this. Books and texts of the past. If I ask you for a certain topic, you no doubt will provide me with everything and twice over what is to say about it."

Doran smiled at the joke, but it was a fragile thing, as if he saw something only the two would share alone. They were silent for a time, longer. After a minute or two more, he finally mustered the courage to speak. "But that is not why you come here, is it?"

Her response was instantaneous. She placed the page down on the table and expelled a breath, long and bitter. She sounded quite tired all of a sudden. "No, that's not the reason for my visit."

Doran braced for the impact, expecting the matriarch to explain even further. When it didn't come, his nervousness rose to a pitch as he watched the matriarch let her eyes fall to a close.

Silence permeated the room for only a moment, but Doran thought it lasted longer than that. Had he done something wrong? Was there something that irritated the matriarch? Fear gripped him by the heart, heavy his head full of dark uncertainty.

Fortunately, Doran didn't need to wait that long as Gerrie opened them as if her decision was set. Her eyes shifted sharply into a cold seriousness Doran was long familiar with.

Gerrie switched on him. Her glare alone could pierce the thickest of armour as Doran became tense with weariness.

"Doran." She said flatly.

"Y-yes, my lady?"

Doran braced himself and waited longer still, feeling more agitated from the silence rather than the expected response. As he stood ready to receive the worst, the worst came with growing indignation not from the matriarch, but at Doran as he later saw the imperceptible twitch on her lips of what might have been a bare-holding grin.

As if caught in the act, Gerrie's authoritarian facade faded instantly upon her face, and laughter soon erupted in the room. It was a booming passionate sound, which made Doran all the more flushed with embarrassment.

"That isn't funny," Doran said after a moment of recovery, his voice utterly deadpanned.

Gerrie's laugh then receded and gave the scribe a broad smile, sharp teeth as white as pale snow. "And yet, I find this amusing all the same," Gerrie fixed at the desk once more, one paw ran against the open pages of the tome. "Now, if you are done moping around, show me what you've done so far.

---

Doran later offered the progress of his newly made work the lady requested with unease hesitation. Though he was still flushed and recovering from the discomfiture at the matriarch's little stunt, the feeling subsided as if expelling a breath, replaced with a gradual growing eagerness.

He couldn't be mad at her, and could never. Even after all this time, the matriarch's impish easygoing attitude hadn't dulled over the years. Instead, it was the opposite as she released herself openly and without restraint to a select few worthy of experiencing her wild charm. Doran was the first and knew personally well when he was but a squire and she a daughter to the late father, Aldo Ironwood.

Doran smiled inwardly as memories of childhood years flooded his train of thought. He was a good squire back then, able and eager to serve. His greatest vocation was writing, reading full of fantastical tales and legends as Doran could spare whatever time available to him. When he found that his possessed materials weren't enough to sate his curiosity he sometimes sneaked through the library late at night, borrowing obscured books that no one would pick.

But one night, just as his usual routine of sneaking around seemed almost perfect, Doran met someone at the library that changed his life forever.

Remaining glued on his seat with the matriarch at his side, Doran resumed his work under her guidance, one paw firmly around the quill, copy editing and redacting Angron's entire life story. With half-truths and fantastical notions to the saga Doran chose, Gerrie looked at each finished page in her usual studious gaze.

So far, she didn't admonish Doran for the attempt so much as she approved his decision, even offering her own consideration such as withholding a particular phrase or two from the text or maintaining a few nuggets of truth into place.

The only exception Doran dared to decline, much with weary hesitation on his part, was Gerrie's habitual proposal to mischievously remake the champion's entire image into something else of a witty jest.

Doran had considered this, turning the creature's brutal, heartless legacy into a comical buffoonery, but he wanted none of that. His duty to House Ironwood and the responsibilities that came along with them far outweighed his own petty interests and hers.

Work gradually persisted.

Hours continued apace long into the night with Doran on the desk while Gerrie came to review the papers, scanning the contents for any possible errors. So far, all of them were flawless. The volume had a lengthy text, fragile. Yellow parchments were easily brittle by touch as it took a careful paw to flip only a page. Even the words faded out from the content, which became nearly impossible to read.

This set of problems alone harboured longer than Doran would like to believe, and he hadn't even reached a quarter of its fulfilment. But that was the way of things, he imagined, and he was content in it. He could let the other scribes handle this type of ordeal, a fact he refused pungently to anyone without skill or merit. A work like this one deserved a careful, professional paw. Better he do this one or let none at all.

A soft chuckle rose from behind as the matriarch eyed him with a glint of amusement. Doran met her eyes. Suddenly fixed on her onyx eyes for long moments, he snapped back to the desk. He was nervous, sweat profusing from the brow as if caught cheating. The matriarch's paw planted on his shoulder, pressing forward her body to scan the contents of the old tome.

"It is done, then?" Matriarch Gerrie inquired.

"Not even close. Such work like this doesn't end in just a single week." Doran concentrated his work as a means of distraction. His attempt to disguise his nervousness at how close the matriarch was, began to crack.

Gerrie peered at him. She wasn't fooled for a second as that signature grin peeled from her lips. "You seemed nervous, Doran." she said, her voice low and mellifluous like cream.

Doran resisted, lips sealed, not giving her the satisfaction. Gerrie chuckled and then boldly, surprisingly, wrapped her arms tight around his neck. That stopped Doran in his place, suddenly tensed by her touch. He glanced back hesitantly to catch the matriarch's eyes. There was hunger in that onyx gaze, desire deep with a longing.

"You know, Doran. You don't have to be serious around me."

The matriarch's voice became almost raw, inviting. Doran recognized that tone before. Long ago. So long ago. "My lady," he said levelly, planting one paw on her arm, a gesture he was given that much in return. "You are the matriarch of this House.

The statement was not only a fact. It was a reminder, and Doran knew, deep down, the reason he could not accept her offer. He was a nobody, and she was something, a ruler of an honourable prestige and above the lower classes.

Including himself.

Clicking her tongue in frustration, Gerrie tightened her grip with a growing accumulating force. A careful gesture, not strong enough to break Doran's neck. She said nothing, not needed to, as Doran saw the look of confirmation in her eyes that he was right. A painful truth, but a necessary one as tradition demanded of them.

Ordinarily, Doran would have asked the matriarch to release such an embrace before Norka, or anyone else, would notice. He could not afford to let rumours spread and ruin the matriarch's reputation. And yet this time, this only time, he cared none of it all and let their embrace continue long into the silence.

The silence was premature.

A rapt knock from the door, thrice the gesture, vibrated loud into the chamber that split the two apart as if fate denied their joining. Doran grunted, a hint of annoyance littered in his voice. While he showed restraint for not showing, Gerrie was far worse than he was, rage fuming on her face. When she spoke, she was barely able to hold restraint.

"What is it? Who is interrupting me and this hour?"

The answer responded back in Norka's voice. "A ranger, milady," he stated. His voice was utterly flat and colourless that hid his emotions. "From the outskirts. She appears to have reports of a sighting."

Her response didn't come out immediately. Matriarch Gerrie inhaled a deep breath, eyes closed. It was a practice done many times on meetings with relatives and subjects that were beyond irritating. She opened them a moment after exhalation, a sense of calmness returning to her composure.

"Let the ranger in," she commanded. Norka pressed the door inward to creak open, and a black hooded figure of short stature walked into the chamber. She planted one knee before the matriarch, waiting for her command to rise.

Gerrie gestured. The wolf ranger rose smoothly to her feet and unfolded the hood, revealing her white-sepia coat of fur. Her pointed face had that apparent reservation, of control, youthfully smooth and free from blemishes or scars. She beamed with duty. Her blue eyes were cold and hard like merciless winter as if the horrors beyond the realm firmly steeled her heart.

"My lady. One of the rangers caught sight of a scouting party sent to investigate the outpost from Blackpine woods." She told the matriarch the news without preamble, a tactless manner found most common among rangers.

Doran rose from his seat and stood relatively close just behind the matriarch. As a shadow to her every step, he listened and observed and recorded every word the ranger said. Not only as a head scribe but a recorder of its latest events. It was Gerrie who entirely made up a position for the sole reason for Doran to be at her side.

Gerrie's eyes narrowed. "And?" she said slowly. The ranger shook her head.

"There have been casualties. Pack leader Mistral is dead."

Doran stiffened, suddenly feeling ill all of a sudden. He wasn't fond of Mistral. Never particularly cared for that idiot excuse for an unimaginative warrioress. And yet, by the Wylds, he could never question Mistral's loyalty, her courage to head straight towards doom. She would have walked into hel if the matriarch had commanded her. The very thought that someone, or something, had managed to take her down in an actual fight was both unheard of and disheartening news.

Gerrie's face from the statement remained placid, solid. She had a remarkable control for restraint when putting her mind into motion. It had taken her a long ordeal of practice and trial to ideally remain stoic to the gravest of situations. Despite her valiant attempt to conceal anything, Doran saw the barest subtle twitch of body language to suggest that she felt the same reaction as he did.

As the matriarch gestured to continue, the ranger did so as she was told. "Survivors Mizpah and Camden made it back alive. Battered, wounded. They seemed..." the ranger trailed off, glancing sideways to the ground as if something caught in her throat. Gerrie arched an eyebrow at the hesitation, and then glanced back at Doran, who made a slight shrug.

"Ranger Kayla." Doran finally took over at the matriarch's consent. He didn't raise his voice, but the ranger snapped back to the moment at her given name, eyeing on the scribe. As the matriarch harboured authority, and Mistral the determination to succeed, Doran spoke with the casual brevity to familiarize and exploit. If one were to get attention from stubborn, unscrupulous characters, secrets and threats would deliver the result.

"Ranger Kayla," Doran repeated again, more firmly this time. A tiny smile crept across his face meant for assurance, but the ranger almost winced from the sight. "You are in the presence of the matriarch. Do not keep her waiting." Kayla nodded briskly, unease evident on her face.

"Y-yes. Forgive me," Kayla quickly cleared her throat, and shifted the direction at the matriarch. "Mizpah and Camden had indeed been sighted, but they were not alone." This time it was Doran's turn to cock his brow, suddenly perplexed at the ranger and her early hesitation. Surely, it was not something so trivial for any ranger to be outright flustered.

Gerrie snorted, then shook her head, her posture relaxing. "That's what you are spooked about, ranger? Some group of nobodies." Her laughter echoed out the room, loud and piercing.

Kayla shrank inwardly, ashamed. She was about to say more, but Doran cut her off and spoke directly to Gerrie. "Perhaps, these strangers may be more than that." He shifted to Kayla. "And who, ranger, are these people?"