[Miasma]

  She doesn't hate him-- at least, not so much as the other two. She certainly doesn't like him, but there's something comforting about one of the alphas coming from Oukoku. It's likely he knows how to hold power, as his mother had, without gripping it so tightly it breaks, as other Rosas she saw replaced. No way is a child of Yellow weak in any way-- that's soothing. It's not like anyone would have listened to Telana or Cocytus is if weren't for his imposing stature behind them.

  Miasma only hopes they're worth supporting. She hasn't decided, but she does know how to show deference. She saw it at the last coup. Trudging through the brush with a pair of antlers, folded on their strings and clicking between her teeth, she seeks the Magus. He's not hard to find, anyway: large and starkly patterned in sharp contrast. Red isn't uncommon in Alteron, but such a crimson is hard to artificially keep. The dire girl doesn't speak with her mouth full, tail swishing high and just damp enough still that the scent of decay hasn't found her yet, the curl of heavy air, the mottling of mud. The ascension wasn't much to see, but the son of a Rosa deserves a proper coronation, and she's groomed for the occasion.

  The antlers were shed from a white-tail, double-pronged and almost delicate looking on someone such as he. Bound by a cord in the back,  which tethers the antlers around the neck. The longest prongs are bound to the eye sockets of a possum skull from within, suspending it at the deepest point of his chest, assuming it's adjusted properly, while the secondary points serve to frame his broad chest, curl away from the body just enough they pose a bit of an obstacle to anyone aiming for the throat.

  The yearling steps back, dips her damp head, and says, "I hope you like it. It's the best I can do, with my skill." Self-taught, vaguely deranged. "I heard bones are a mark of royalty in Alteron. Maybe. I was just getting used to it when everything changed." Miasma recognizes him, from the Valley. He has Alaunos' silhouette, but is the spitting image of Nhu. She knows his name, doubting he's heard of her. She tended to hide in a den where she wasn't born, caked in tar and cloaked in Crow's shadow. Him, Falco must know.

[Falco]

A yearling she-wolf came to him with a gift swinging between her teeth and a hint of familiarity shining in her too-bright eyes, inserting herself into his discerning line of sight, slicing through the thoughts clotting his mind and bringing him back to the cold ghost-laden fogs of Alteron. He lay to the side of a massive rock that had become overgrown with moss over the years, pressing his back against its side, letting the weak shadows blanket him. When the young she-wolf approached he did not rise to his feet regardless of how aware she was making him that he should try to keep up appearances. That was the problem with Alteron though, wasn’t it? Too many of the wolves who came before him were worried about how they looked to the denizens and they had never earned the love and respect they thought they deserved for it. The new Triumvirate wouldn’t make the mistakes those that came before them did. Falco’s eyes locked on the skull as she presented it to him.

“Hmmm, I’ve never seen anything like this before,” a cold little smirk tugged at the corner of his lip before vanishing with a breath. “I suppose I do like it. I have nothing to compare it to. How auspicious for the both of us, don’t you agree?”

They both got something they wanted, he implied, some form of gratitude for their hard work.

“Are they?” Falco’s asked, voice amused, face dead. “I think you and I have something in common here. Were you at our little ‘coronation’? Alteron outwardly rankles at every King or Queen; none of them will ever be good enough. I feel they think we’re just another coup, but the truth is you were all abandoned. Does Alteron know that? Do the people understand they were a breath away from being nothing?”

He finally pulled himself up off the ground, at least to a sitting position, and shook off some of the damp foliage that clung to his pelt. Let us not forget at the end of the day, they were all just wolves.

“It’s nice to be appreciated, for once,” Falco somberly added. ”Not that I need it. If this were a game of appreciation well…I think you know in the end we all fucking lose. Especially here. What do I call you, anyway? I’m not so lofty to not want to know the names of my precious fellows.”

[Miasma]

  She smiles faintly at his attempt of gratitude, bemoaning self-importance. "I don't pretend to understand politics." The Triumvirate lead, and should it fail, they'll be fed to the fungi. They called the little woman Keystone, and clawed at her eyes. Crow killed gods before; how could this be any different?

  "It's nice to be appreciated, for once." She bows her head, to hide a grin. "Not that I need it. If this were a game of appreciation well…I think you know in the end we all fucking lose." Her smile directs to him, then; at least one of their newest ruling body understands. "Especially here." Even moreso than home-- right, Falco? "What do I call you, anyway? I’m not so lofty to not want to know the names of my precious fellows.”

Facetious narcissist. He's Oukokuan, alright.

  "Miasma," the yearling replies politely, "my dad brought me after the war."

You should meet my father sometime, Falco. I'm sure he'd love you...

[Falco]

"I don't pretend to understand politics."

The Magus laughed, and the sound was near-genuine, “Oh, I suspect that is a total lie. That is exactly the sort of answer someone who doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of the Magus would say to appease him. Dedicating yourself to an answer is difficult when you’ve lived your life tiptoeing around the unstable whims of sovereigns, but I think you do have an answer even if you choose not to share it.”

He did not say that she was wrong to answer the way she did and hopefully she would notice. Nothing pleased the Magus; passivity annoyed him as did the flapping jaws of old nobles in Alteron. There was no right answer and that was the way that he liked it. They would have choice words to describe him in years to come but only Falco would know the truth.

“Miasma. Lovely. Your father?” Falco spoke with mild interest. “You’re lucky to have missed that shitshow. I thought what it did to my homeland was bad but when I came here, to the victors of that very war, I found this husk of a pack. Seems to me no one really came out as winners. Except you and I, right, Miasma?”

The Bible of Oukoku-kai crumbled into irrelevancy and so too did the fable of the Red Dragon; it was not a new chapter they wrote today, but an entirely new book, and that war was the last relic of a generation which grew too confident in its feeble understanding of the universe. That war would become a black stain on everyone’s memories in time and someday Miasma might get to participate in her own war. Lucky child.

[Miasma]

  She cocks her head, listening, fur fluffing up in the humidity like the sponge she is. Oh, but Falco doesn't know, despite his judgments. She really doesn't understand-- all the strategy and forethought that goes into control. If she understood, it wouldn't work on her. Crow wouldn't care for that.

  "Miasma. Lovely. Your father?" A sharp little grin cuts her face, but she bites her lip as he still speaks. "You’re lucky to have missed that shitshow." She didn't, really. The dire said after when she really means during. She was in Alteron while the war still raged. Crossed the borders in the chaos.

It wasn't that bad, really.

  Falco seems to think the whole spectacle was a waste, but isn't the entertainment in itself satisfying enough? Maybe he doesn't find violence fun. What a poor excuse for a king.

  "Seems to me no one really came out as winners. Except you and I, right, Miasma?”

  She smiles, still, more at her own ideas than any agreement. "If it means we're here, then I suppose that's alright." A fresh start, freedom from her siblings. Daddy dearest, all to herself.

No one can have him now.