The good soldier (c)

[East]

BLOOD HARDENS IN THE SAND

The circus of carnage by night served to mask business transactions by day. When the afternoon's light seeped through the single, stained window, however diluted by the winter's sun, it shed upon the ring like the point of a finger. The rats scurried into corners to avoid its accusation until it faded, but until then, Grimshaw was free to conduct his trade without interruption.

The light was no kinder on the Dane mix when he passed beneath it, exposing the furrows and discoloration scars that disappeared into his fur once the shadows rested back upon them. The ring's host paced in the basement at a slow stalk that barely denoted the restlessness he'd been feeling since Tybalt had brought him the news of the Sheriff. It sat stubbornly at the back of his mind until appeased. But there were other matters first, certain preparations. When it was done, it would be done right.

Grimshaw Agilulfo awaited his son and collaborator in that order. Before Tzafar could arrive, he had to discuss his proposal with Daryl first. A relationship with his eldest had only just been established and it wasn't without tension, but he was keen to improve upon it. Grimshaw didn't know whether Daryl would ever regard him as his father in the way a son ought to, had he done right by him, but perhaps something close. The older dog wanted to give him opportunities, ones that would serve him too. Grimshaw was generous in his investment towards Tempest and its Commandant, especially with one success under their belt. The more favour he cast her way now, the more that would be returned when his family needed it. After several years, Grimshaw was beginning to see the benefit of having friends in this city and learning how to maintain them.

COLD METAL IN MY HAND

»Vexation

[»Vexation]

He stood in the doorway, silent and still, amber eyes peering at the shrouded staircase that led down into the basement. He did not often frequent the building, but knew that during the fights his father hosted that the noise volume could be quite impressive, the sounds of jeering and cheering echoing up those dark steps. No such sounds emitted from below as he stood, poised to descend. An off day, perhaps, though Daryl was glad for it. Grimshaw had summoned him there to discuss something, the nature of which he was not entirely sure of, and he was not interested in having an audience. Their relationship, though blooming, was still as fresh as new flower buds on the bush, and he preferred to meet with his father in private.

He shifted forward, front paws lightly touching on the first step, hesitant at first but moving more steadily when the wood creaked beneath his weight, as if the noise had lent him confidence. Or else the sound disturbance, no doubt heard by the older dog below, forced him into swifter action, as he did not want to seem as if he were dilly dallying. Though still wary of encounters with his sire, for all the emotional upheaval it caused him, he did not want his father to know that. Though he thought Grimshaw was well aware of the fact.

Down he moved, until his limbs struck solid floor and he spotted Grim. His expression was one of mild expectation, not quite curiosity but something close. He approached the scarred male, eyes traveling briefly around the empty space before settling more securely on his father. "No fights today." Not a question. The fact that they were alone spoke enough about the current activity in the basement. Small talk, boring, simple, but preferable over a 'how have you been?'. Daryl was still uncertain about his feelings for what little bond they had developed, but it seemed easier to comment about the state of the arena, than to inquire after Grimshaw's wellbeing. He would get to that, perhaps, eventually. But not now.

[East]

BLOOD HARDENS IN THE SAND

He heard the protest of wood under foot, tattered ears pushing tall before flicking back. Grimshaw turned from the route of his slow walk to face his son when he entered the basement and take a few steps in his direction before stopping. Daryl walked the rest of the short distance, running his eyes across the dingy space. The father speculated on whose eyes he had, his or Karma's. Grimshaw decided his, because otherwise the resemblance between them would be scars.

"Business by day, son, pleasure by night," he answered with a shadow of a grin, barely visible on his dark face. Grimshaw gave no indication that there was any strain, though he knew it was there. It would take a lot more to put their relationship at ease, not long renewed. After Deed's actions some wariness lingered, as he'd accused Daryl before. But Daryl could just as easily reject him for his negligence throughout the years. There were reasons, questions, unresolved conversations wedged between them that they would have to chip at in order to get closer.

Grimshaw sat down, flexing his shoulders back habitually as he did. He leveled his eyes with his eldest son. "I need ya to do somethin' for me."
It wasn't a command. Daryl wasn't like his other children. As the deadbeat father, he could never assume control over him. That would take the thin threads of respect forming between them like brushing away a spider's web.

"I don't know if ya heard of our new friends yet, Tzafar and her Tempest, but we've got the makin's of a good thing goin'. An' the more ya put in, the more ya get out." Grimshaw wouldn't have put anything in at all if he didn't think it would be successful. But the ringmaster anticipated a great power rising. And when great power rose, its friends were remembered. His stare became more direct. "I want you to go there. Work for 'em, work with 'em." Grimshaw paused to let him digest the proposal, before continuing. "It's a new friendship, which makes it delicate." While keen to make it work, Grimshaw wasn't naive. While the mould had yet to set, there were precautions that had to be taken and a crucial demand for respect between both parties. If he were to send the Kangal some of his own, they had to be capable, not someone who would weaken the relationship with misconduct. "I need someone I can trust, Daryl."

Maybe Grimshaw didn't trust him after everything, but he truly wanted to.

COLD METAL IN MY HAND

[»Vexation]

He nodded absently at the comment of arena activity, his gaze sharpening at the mention of a favor. He couldn't guess at what the elder dog could possibly need from him. Grimshaw had never asked for anything in the past, and the lack of trust between them ought to have made any request questionable. His jaw muscles loosened in preparation of speech but before his mouth could open his father continued and the black male listened closely, skeptically "I've heard of them," he said with a slight dip of his head, trying to recall the little rumors he had heard. Very little information had reached his ears, and he was fairly certain that until that moment he had not even known the name of the organization.

He carefully controlled his expression as surprise came to the forefront of his emotions, amber eyes pinned on his father's. It was more than the simple favor he had been expecting, and initially he was uncertain. Over the years he had been careful to exclude himself from all groups, not keen on a repeat of his time in the Legion or the Apostles.

He was being asked quite a bit more than a scratch on the back, and when Grimshaw was finished the younger dog was silent. Should he help? He had a feeling more might be at stake than his already tender relationship with his sire. If things went south it could mean a complete upheaval of the simple life he had made for himself. But staring at his father, he wondered, did he really want to deny him?

The comment of trust made him stir, his weight shifting from one set of legs to the other, as a boat might rock along gentle ocean waves. "Do you trust me?" His voice was pitched low, the words barely louder than the thought which had spawned them. His pupils shivered as if with the urge to look away but he held his gaze firm, shoulders tense. The answer was important (perhaps the most important) one he could receive. But whatever it was, it would not dictate his decision, for after the moment in which he gave for his father to reply, he followed with, "When?"

[East]

BLOOD HARDENS IN THE SAND

Daryl's eyes were unwavering, his back stiff. He was a hard to read individual without the lack of bond between them, but Grimshaw knew there was something there, concealed beneath his resolve. The father had expected it. It wasn't an easy question and he had no easy answer. There was no point in lying. Daryl would know and it would do him no good. If something was to be built, it couldn't be on shaky foundations and so he kept his eyes level with his eldest son, the harshness of his scarred face sanded by a sincere expression. "I want to." Grimshaw watched him for a few seconds longer, before lifting his eyes to give Daryl a reprieve to consider the olive branch without his scrutiny. He hadn't been wronged by Daryl, it was he who would have to wait for forgiveness. So he would wait for as long as it took.

But it appeared Daryl was consenting to the proposal regardless. The scarred mutt was glad, lifting a head an inch to shift into a demeanour more suited for business. "Now." He smiled briefly, with an ironic apology. "Tzafar will be here shortly. Best not to waste any time." Was that to say he had assumed Daryl's agreement when he'd arranged it in advance with the Kangal dog?

No, he'd had no idea. And if his son had refused, the ringmaster would find himself in the awkward position of bringing out the Tempest leader for nothing. It would have still been lying had Grimshaw said he trusted Daryl, but he had been willing to put some blind faith in the dog. And it had worked. It felt something like a first step, a real one and he was beginning to feel like one day, they could walk alongside one another. No more steps back, only forward.

COLD METAL IN MY HAND

[»Vexation]

Anger flared bright as the sun at his sire's words, burning a hot path through his chest and making him roil with the need to lash out. But on its heels came disappointment, and something else. Hurt. Had he really expected otherwise, though? Deed had laid the foundation of Grimshaw's relationship with his older boys and even in death Daryl's brother seemed to be dictating the link between father and son. Grimshaw's negligence would have hampered their bond regardless, but had Deed not committed violent acts against the family, they might well have moved past this point long ago. The Ringmaster's lack of trust disturbed Daryl, caused faults in his own faith in the elder canine, and thus tainted their link.

But he understood.

Whatever expression his rapid fire of emotions had painted across his face, he carefully rearranged it back into a look that conveyed detached calm. His chin dipped shortly toward his chest, an acknowledgement and acceptance of the answer he had received. The pain of the truth lingered deep inside, but he valued the honesty more than he would have declarations of false feelings. For the truth he was grateful, but it did little to ease the hurt, the loneliness and the odd self loathing that he had carried for so long. As if it were he, not Grimshaw, who was at fault.

The son who had not been good enough to earn his father's love.

Grim looked away and he did likewise, taking the moment to reorganize his thoughts and get back on track. His eyes sailed over the nearby ring, dirt floor trampled into hardness by the many feet that had trod over it, the soil tainted dark by lives lost, and lives renewed. Amber gaze shifted back to eyes of the same color and narrowed a fraction, considering. Had the older male known he would accept the request, or had it been planned that Tzafar would come no matter the answer? He decided to speculate later. At the present, it seemed he was about to meet someone famous.

Peregrine