Galadan's nostrils flare, and his winter-grey eyes catch the light oddly as he turns his head to survey the stage and its environs.

Everything is where it should be, so far. But, as ever, the Wolflord does not trust that this trend will continue.

Particularly not in light of all the muttered whispers he and Gabriel's other particularly clever aide-de-camp have run across.

Their very contradictory nature is what makes him so suspicious--someone seems to have disseminated a few too many rumors. But which are the fabricated ones?

Doubtless before today ends, at least a few of them will have been found out.

And it has been some time since Galadan has tasted blood.