Oh you poor soul. You should just end yourself right now.
Tharon was fortunate to have been brought up alongside a clan of witches. He learned much of their lore and some of their history. He had seen Tristan once before when he had accompanied Gina to a gathering of the clans that the McLeods hosted. The most dangerous thing he perceived about the man was his charm. The witch was well schooled in the game of cat and mouse… better yet, he probably invented the game.
"The undead are not without their gems." He smiled toothily at Tristan. "Beings such as myself are able to perceive beauty in the unconventional." It was true. He actively tried to perceive the world without bias, determined to be the change he wished to see. Wolf morals and politics hadn’t defeated him through years, instead they tempered him.
The wolf growled in what it would have tried to pass off as a laugh, and Tharon smiled to complete the wolf’s desired portrayal. ”I thought it was rather fortuitous. Such a treat all to myself.” He licked his lips in a wolfish fashion.
"What of yourself?" Tharon offered, gesturing toward the Craven. "No rest for the wicked, as it were?" He smiled, somehow enjoying their exchange.
Tristan’s eyes widened and lit up. Gems, indeed. Little would he admit it, but Tristan’s entire physical identity was built around the attractive qualities that vampires could give him — or, more appropriately, what he could take from them. He considered the alpha’s statement, knowing the wolf’s imposed pack ethics to be nothing short of progressive in comparison to those held by others of his kind. And then there was the his twin sister, the omega… well, when Tristan found out about that situation, he had been just as surprised as anyone else.
He chimed in with the laugh, the sound a warm baritone cutting out against the chill of the air. “Hmm, quite a worthy prize,” he agreed wholeheartedly. (The witch himself had never been a big fan of sharing, but that wasn’t exactly a surprise.)
Then Tristan quirked a brow. “Wicked?” he inquired, rolling his eyes, but with that same characteristic, semi-permanent smirk set on his face. “Oh, stop it, you flatter me.” He waved a hand dismissively, he held no ill intentions, and it was hard to find the right balance of intelligent conversation and amusing banter in the Ward to suit his taste other than the times Alistair was around, although that seemed to be occurring more and more as of late.
I cannot set a bad example for my followers. And I also cannot travel back in time. any other thoughts Craven?
Nothing short of lopping the heads off small animals. Oh, how I suffer.