The General was used to secrets. They were cloaked and mantled into his pelt, sown into his veins, driven, scarred and scalded across his predacious bones, until his silent mouth had become a tomb of surreptitious, furtive desires. With his piercing, hushed grandeur, the world knew naught of his schemes, his demands, his yearnings or toilings, and with his puncturing, lacerating convictions, the world knew naught of their creed, their indulgences, their fascinating inclinations and impulses. In order to share in the covert scene, those gathered had to prove their ability to hold these specious certitudes precious, tight and taut against the boughs of their inner workings, to never bellow or unearth their regard, to die with the confidential tidings ensnared around their tongues. As he stared upon the two now sheltered in the whims of Crowley’s persuasions, he pondered over their fortitude, their might, and their abilities. Would the painted one, with his seemingly inane communications, be capable of wielding pertinent information, hollowing it into his soul like a hallowed grave, eager to toss his sword into the chest of an enemy? Was he made of assurances, or of more flighty inclinations, tossed into storms until he could bear no more? Would the wolf, with his indifferent species, be proficient at what they wished to do? What would he revel, revere, condemn within the hold of bloodshed and loathing? Did he despise other creatures, like they did, or was he one to follow the crowd, until the earth became too murky, too muddled, and he escaped within the valley of decay? The monster had his suspicions, his derisions, his calculating moments within the brewing, muted haze, but said nothing over the tenuous olive branches. Recruitment was not something he was truly suitable for, he would leave Crowley to complete the actions, but the wolf spoke, and it embarked some fuel, some fire, to sharpen his tongue against the midnight oils. Did the beast wish for a prize, a token, some greater power? Would he have to be bribed in order to join (and did they want a creature of such ploys and wiles, that would only feed until their hands were empty, not loyal, not trustworthy, but a snake draped in fur)? His voice grated along the surface of the tundra towards the carnivore, harsh, unheard for days, and his body remained still, the prominent, deadly, intimidating statue. “Depends on your motivations.”