On the surface, Reman appeared perfectly content with his current situation. Underneath this shell, he was exceedingly worried his hand would be forced against Glade's father; underneath the table, his hand went for where his sword should have been. He meant no aggression nor ill-will from the habit, but it was one of his few physical defense mechanisms. There was a certain air of aggression as the one he assumed was Winter Tundra's met his. Both males knew exactly who the other was, and it went without saying that, while there was little to recognize in either of them, some instinct made them connect the obscured dots.

Tundra was slightly taller than most stallions, but also a little slighter of build; Reman equated the look to a hunting dog primed for the kill. His coat was as white as newly-driven snow and his eyes were a muted blue that seemed to chill whomever fell beneath their gaze. His mane was a deep brown, like moistened, fertile soil. “Morning,” he said, sizing up the one called Reman, as he nodded his head upwards.

“Ave,” he replied, feeling the major's scrutiny as his chilling eyes swept over every feature of his face. Tundra was not pleased with what he saw; truthfully, he was rather perplexed, with a dash of anger thrown in for good measure. Those eyes, as he recalled from the Festival, belonged to none other than the monster that attacked his daughter, and now he found them in the skull of the one claimed to be her special somepony. He did not approve.

“Pleasure to meet you, mister... ?” Glade's mother, the one Reman assumed was called Spring Valley, began, pausing once she realized she wasn't exactly sure which of the odd creatures was her daughter's lover. Renoir, the ever-loyal friend, pointed to the Imperial, who nodded to her.

“Reman Tullius, grandson of the esteemed General Tullius, son of the noble Legatus Tullius, and third in line for patriarch of House Tullius,” he said in a friendly manner, smiling at them as though he'd just commented on some rather enjoyable weather. He had no desire to make enemies, especially not those precious to Glade. “It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

“Courteous,” she said, nodding with some approval, as she and her husband walked to the large dining table. They sat across from the lycans, politely exchanging pleasantries with Renoir as he scooted out of the way. “Though, Reman, I must say that most stallions compliment their partner's mother when first meeting.”

“I imagine your husband is angry with me enough as is,” the Imperial replied, returning the mare's smile. He was employing a tactic commonly used in Imperial negotiations: ignoring the more-opposed party in favor of the more moderate. Major Tundra, if Glade's temper was anything to go by, would fall right into the ploy, drawing back until his position more closely resembled Spring Valley's. The Dunmer had taken the bait twice in the past two centuries; the Dominion had laughed and pressed a blade to the Emperor's throat. “I'd rather work my way out of my current situation before I risk worsening it.”

“Son, the last time a colt tried to give me the cold shoulder, I smashed a whiskey bottle over his snout and bucked his teeth down his throat.” With Tundra's direct words, Reman realized he had taken the bait off the hook, but hadn't pulled the line. Glade had certainly inherited her looks from her mother, but everything else was was her father's. “Now the only thing keeping me from doing the same to you is the pair of guards behind you.”

With a wave, Reman told the guards to move. Celestia hesitantly nodded to them, wondering how this was going to play out. As they moved and took position in the corners of the room, Major Tundra looked a little impressed. Everyone else at the table, save Luna and Renoir, looked as though a ghost had risen from the table and turned into a bouquet of snakes made of roses. Glade, seemingly forgetting Reman was wearing his armor, elbowed him in the ribs. “Dammit,” she muttered as she rubbed the joint, wincing in pain.

“Sir, if you feel the need to prove a point, I've been made aware of a training yard not three minutes from here.” Reman leaned forward, keeping his eyes focused on the major. That was something he noticed: Tundra didn't like his eyes, or something about looking into them made his uneasy, but there was a clear, noticeable effect. He flinched as he felt the weight of his sword shift slightly, and he allowed himself a brief glance to Glade. He was not pleased to find her hooves working the strap of his scabbard. He whispered, “I'm not going to cut him down, Glade.”

“I suppose a bite would do then?” Tundra asked, showing the suspicions he had about the Imperial. The princesses and Glade flinched, but remained silent to see how this would progress. Twilight and her family watched more out of morbid fascination than anything else, though Shining Armor was ready to step in if things came to blows. “I was at the Festival, I saw you bite my daughter and damn near cripple her.”

“Dad!” Glade shouted, standing from her seat.

“Oh no! I'm tired of all this bullshit!” Tundra slammed his hooves on the table, making the guards stand ready. As much as it would pain them, they wouldn't show restraint just because he was a retiree; he was in roughly the same shape he had been during his tenure. “You bite my daughter, then she disappears for a week doing fuck-all somewhere, then right as she comes home, she's pulled out of the country.” He rubbed his temples and leaned back in his chair, panting. Valley put a hoof on his shoulder, worriedly looking between her husband and her daughter’s coltfriend, not sure which one was going to snap first. Reman, as far as she could tell, looked rather calm, all things considered.

“Glade has been on a diplomatic mission to the Empire, and is perhaps the biggest reason the Emperor will be seeing the princess.” His voice was even as he looked in Tundra's eyes, allowing for no mistake in tone or meaning. “So, it would appear Glade doing fuck-all still accomplishes more in one month than most do in their entire lives.”

“Reman, you don't even know what fuck means,” Glade said, giving him a flat look. Truthfully, that was either the second or third time he'd even heard the word; Imperial profanity was not quite as versatile, or required some historical information to have any sort of impact. “And stop reaching for your sword.”

“It's a reflex,” he defended, looking almost hurt by her words. He relented, giving her a flat look, and placed his Skyforge steel sword on the table, still sheathed. Spring Valley nudged her husband, who very reluctantly placed his hoof-guards net to the weapon.

“Honey, maybe you two can get along after all,” she said, smiling at the Imperial as Tundra looked ready to vomit.

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Fluttershy groaned as she woke, scrunching her eyes closed as sunlight invaded her blessed darkness. She was thirsty and nauseated beyond anything she had ever experienced, but the pounding in her head, the screeching whine every noise maybe as it battered her ears, and the infernal, stabbing pains that burned her eyes whenever she dared open them to gain even some small understanding of her surroundings. She wasn't quite sure where she was; her last clear memory was grabbing the flask Renoir had been drinking from, then... a blur.

Slowly, she cracked her eyes open, rolling as quickly as she could to avoid the harsh, punishing sun. she could honestly say she had never felt this way before; her only reference was a serious case of the feather flu, and even though it had many of the same symptoms, they paled in comparison to the pain raging through her skull. Her tongue stuck to the bottom of her mouth, drier than she knew her mouth to be, and her lips were hardly any better. She was dehydrated to the point of near-desperation, and had a gnawing hunger tearing through her gut, though it seemed too empty to even voice its desires.

She took one look at the pile of midnight snacks Twilight had munched on the night before and retched. Nothing came up, her stomach having emptied its contents the previous night. Food, as much as she wanted it, would only serve to sicken her more. The room seemed too bright to wander, and she just collapsed back to the floor, shutting her eyes. She convulsed again, and a small portion of the previous night became a little less foggy.

“Oh my,” she whimpered as her intentions revealed themselves. She had wanted Renoir to bite her, to alleviate his thirst using her blood. He was an eternally thirsty, magical creature of the night, who hated sunlight and had sense beyond mere mortals. Her mind screeched to a halt. Her eyes flew open, not caring about the burning pains that lanced through them. She scrambled to her hooves as best she could, desperately trying to find a mirror.

“No!” she whimpered, staggering to the nearest door she could find, hoping it was Twilight's old bathroom. Instead, she found herself tumbling into the hall, directly into a passing guard on patrol.

“Ma'am?” he asked, looking concerned. He had been in the castle for years, and knew the ins and outs better than most, so he knew this was Twilight Sparkle's old room, and that the little, yellow pegasus before him was the Element of Kindness. Seeing her with her eyes bloodshot, obviously panicking, and within his jurisdiction, he felt more than obligated to provide aid. “Do you need any help?”

“A-are my eyes red?” she asked, her voice small enough to strain his hearing. She was more than a little worried, so much so that he had a brief desire to rush her to the nearest hospital.

“Yes, ma'am,” was all he replied, looking at her strangely. Her eyes grew wide, and she leaned back, not sure of what to do. After a moment's pause, she sighed, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Is there something I can do?”

“Y-yes,” she replied, sniffling. Fluttershy didn't know what to do, but she felt she needed to talk to Renoir very badly, and it wasn't something that could wait. If he bit her like she asked, then it was possible she was a vampire, and she seemed to have all the symptoms associated with the blight. Reman said it took three days for him to turn into a werewolf, but Glade didn't even take five hours. Both diseases came from Daedra, so it made sense for their timetables to be similar. “I need to see Renoir Belmont.”

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Breakfast passed in relative silence, which was made plenty awkward once Spike crawled from Velvet's bag, and very quickly asked Major Tundra what the word fuck meant. Reman was curious, as well, but he at least knew it was some sort of profanity; he had heard it once before, but it had been meant as compliment. He and Glade ate the most, followed closely by Shining Armor, who packed away two plates of pancakes and half a plate of eggs.

“So, Mr. Tullius, what is it you do?” Spring Valley asked, hoping to break the silence with ore than smalltalk about the weather. Reman, who had finished eating a while ago and only remained so he could tutor Celestia, looked at her for a moment before giving his answer.

“I do whatever someone wants done, if they can afford my services,” he replied, being discreet about any ties he may or may not have had with any assassin guilds. Mercenary work was common in Cyrodiil, common for adventurers, common for dungeon crawlers, and common for werewolves. He fit snugly into all of those categories. “And it doesn't violate my morals, however lax they may be.”

“A mercenary, then?” she giggled, thinking of the commonly-romanticized occupation. The odds of finding a stallion who was devilishly handsome and had a roguish charm about him were equal to finding a prostitute in Fillydelphia who had more than eight teeth. “I bet you've had your share of adventure.”

“And then some,” Glade replied, chuckling. She looked Reman in the eye, and silently told him he had better not blow this, or she'd make sure he paid dearly for it. She turned backt o her parents, smiling. “We actually saw a good bit during our travels.”

“Any more of these... werewolves?” Tundra asked, not quite over his anger. It would take a fair bit before he would be anywhere near comfortable being around Reman, but he could tolerate the experience, if only because he didn't enjoy the idea of losing his daughter. “Most wolves run in packs.”

“Well, Major, I'm a bit of a one-man wolfpack.” Reman did his best to remain neutral as he said that, not wishing to smile or frown for fear of passing along the wrong message. While friendly, he and Arnbjorn hadn't exactly been the closest, and most of the other lycans he knew had gone feral. Only the Circle remained, and he wasn't about to betray their secret. “But, truthfully, friends have made up for my lack of a pack.”

“So you actually do?” he asked, stunned at the animalistic behavior. While everypony had their own group of friends, ponies didn't call their cliques herds, but he did realize it may have just been a difference in nomenclature. “You fight for the position of alpha?”

“Usually not, but members of other packs who are brought in are sometimes a little rowdy,” Reman answered, smiling as he recalled an instance of him being the rowdy pup. He could practically taste the mazte bottle that he'd gotten smashed in the face with. “Most newcomers are born into the pack, with the alpha male and female being their parents.”

Tundra looked from Reman to Glade, then back again, slowly putting two and two together.

He leaped across the table before anyone could react.