He snorts, spits. Oncoming winter does not settle oppressively in the Valley as it may elsewhere, but the mucous between his mouth and nose says the seasons are changing. While the heathens fatten up and bed down, Oukoku-Kai readies itself for war. Garrison has put on a bit of weight himself, just from what prey has fled to follow the warmth. The Inner Ring of the Forest Maze is home to many disoriented animals this time of year, and the Officer sinks teeth into the flesh of some hooved thing, all that's left to identify the dead.

  Thick blood mixes with his drool, oozing from powerful jaws as he gorges. He doesn't like to be over encumbered, but there is safety in excess, especially when leaving the pack-lands. When Ragnarok comes, Garrison will be ready.

  He snaps tendon between teeth and claws, satisfied with the reverberation. Shame he missed the last battle. The dire chokes down another chunk of meat, and blue eyes narrow contemplatively at the figure he spies. Sand and coal colour his pelt, a wolf at the height of his breed, deceptively pale eyes. It's the only light thing about him, if Garrison is anything to go on.

  Black tongue hastily swipes at his muzzle, a perfunctory sorting of his appearance, a modicum of respect despite the burgundy that has sunken into his skin. He stands, bark brassy and direct from the diaphragm. He doesn't know who he's speaking to, besides the power stacked on his frame, the pride in his stride. That's all he needs to know. Garrison stands still on the crest of a rock outcrop, stance wide, bones of the kill visible even from below. He sniffs, still staring at Achilles. Decisions.

  A warrior meets a veteran, stands at attention, and says, "You hungry?"

  He flops back down with a shrug, laps at the seething meat. He'll finish it off in time; he can finish just about anything with enough time. The order comes, and Garrison looks over with a squint. He better have some sort of clout-- probably does, built as he is. He snorts, wets his nose. "Name's Garrison, Slaver and Officer. Follower of the Yellow Order. Founder of House of Garrison," he tears into what may have once been a flank, muttering, "or I will be, soon."

  He looks Achilles over for fresh wounds, guessing, "You miss the war too, eh?" He nods to an agreement or explanation otherwise. "Somebody has to watch the slaves, and my number came up." A few times in a row. Maybe he pissed off the Warden; he pisses off a lot of people.

  "Who're you, then?"

  When Achilles offers his advice, Garrison is quick to respond, "Oh, I want it." He pushes the remnants of his meal aside, gnaws at a tangle of dense fur and ichor by his elbow, makes himself a bit more presentable. "I have a few Bonds in mind, but none so easily taken as with an order." One he'll have to challenge a Shogun for her release, one child of a Rosa he will probably bid his firstborn for, and a slave so willful he wouldn't disgrace her by bonding the woman to an empty house.

  He chuffs at the explanation of Achilles' detainment. Garrison was charged to remain in the territory as well. They served important purposes here. Behind. He's yawning when the introduction finally comes. Garrison's teeth click audibly together. "Yellow Seour?" Throat clears, and he chokes down the mucous that dregs up. "Achilles. It's an honour."

  He takes the advice to heart; Achilles must know what he's doing to be where he is. Garrison, however, knows he isn't quite so pleasant as the Seour; his support alone won't be enough to hold comrades. It's fear of him that makes his allegiance worth anything. If anyone wants to leave his house, they'll have to fight him for it. If they fail... why were they in his house anyway?

  His shoulders slack, just the slightest, as he catches on to the jest. "Your rank carries the potential for godhood, Achilles. Isn't that an honour?" Despite Garrison's insubordination, he truly does believe. He sniffs at his leftovers, corpse gone cold. "There's a slave I see making Ashigaru some day. Came in on his own, but brought to me missing bits. He was found with the Youth, while they were playing Seours." Pale eyes fix frozen on the sandy colours of Achilles. Not all are so understanding as you.

  "Were you born here Garrison?"

  The ridge of his brow raises. Interest, no anger. He owes Achilles the same respect that has been shown to him. Tail sweeps the ground, and then moves out of the way. An invitation. "No. To the north, where fur like mine might be useful." In both colour and density. His pelt is too light for the desert, texture too soft for a place called Death Valley. Tovelo is too small for a Slaver, and a child of White can't grow up to follow Yellow. See how well that works.

  "I don't talk about myself much. I wasn't always as I am now." And he rarely thinks on it. "You first."

  He listens quietly, picking at his teeth, nodding when necessary, but for the most part listening. When not scathingly sarcastic, his silence can almost seem polite. It's usually disinterest, but he retains the information. When the story comes to its conclusion, Garrison licks his nose, clears his throat, and starts.

  "My sister was taken as a slave. I was tasked to find her, became bonded to an Officer, took up training in the rank, and fit in rather well. " He takes one paw to brush back the fur at his throat, expose the three slashes not long healed. It's been only a year, but he has taken to Oukoku-Kai as easily as he left the tundra. "Killed during the Great Party." At long last. He's neglected her name, severed all ties. He is a child of the Valley, by blood, not birth. Pity will be met only with violence.

  She deserved it.