"Is that what you think?" Clay says, his maw dripping with horseflesh as he pauses his feast. "That we…owe you something, pup? You owed us a dead Bane, and you failed. Scarper did what you could not."
To emphasize his packmate's words, Scarper gestures with his knife across his hairy throat.
You sputter. Where to begin? The "Bane" was the horse, not the man. The man was already dead—you're sure you killed him. You finished them both without help, even though the others were supposed to back you up, were supposed to…
What would be the point of arguing? You look from Clay's blood-smeared face to Scarper's gleeful smirk to Black Tarn's hard, mad glare, and know that you will find neither mercy nor fairness here. You could almost choke on your Rage as this pack mocks the Litany right in front of you, turning it from sacred law into a crude bludgeon, used only to torment you. You will win no arguments here, nor find any Honor among these sad old wolves.
"Get back to the van," Scarper tells you. "Get yourself cleaned up. You look like shit. We're going to have to clean up your mess." He flings the keys at you, and you drop them in the darkness. You dig them out of the snow and pick them up in your teeth. Scarper and Black Tarn chuckle as you fumble around, while Clay returns to feeding on the horse-thing.
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