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His son is a battle virgin; that will need to be fixed. "We will need to change that," he muses. He does not ask if Farkas wants to learn how to fight - he simply assumes the youth will bow to his father's commands, even if he doesn't like to, like a true soldier must. He knows the Regime will grow to be hated - they are supremists, power-hungry demons of the night, and they will fight often. For the warlord, that is no problem, simply a fact of life. But for Farkas, it will undoubtedly take a bit of getting used to. The first time one sheds the blood of a foe is not easy, as Tyradon found out to his cost when he allowed that unicorn to live - mercy will have to be trained out of his son.
Or beaten out of him, if necessary. His son meets his gaze, and the beast holds it; the youth's words are interesting, and he grunts his affirmation. "An assassin," he murmurs. A spy could certainly be useful, a member of their order who isn't outwardly confrontational, and simply works his magic from the shadows. "Yes, that could be useful - however, you will still learn to fight, as we will not always be so subtle as to enable you to attack from the shadows." He can almost hear the thunder of hooves, and Cynder purrs her delight at the notion. Shaking his massive skull, he returns his attention to Farkas. "You will need to help us recruit, as well. Go to the Threshold, but be subtle in what you tell them; gain their attention, but send them to myself or Confutatis for further information." He cannot have their plans being blabbered willy-nilly. "Equines only, of course." As if it needed saying. |
[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]
