Wounded Pride and an Empty Stomach

Very seldom did the Warlord venture so far from home. To the icy reaches of the North, where winter held its claws most firmly into the world. He had not been able to for some time now, but with the promotion of a leader in his pack, he allowed himself some freedoms. He had not forgotten the Alpha of Abavens words, that Acere might one day turn his eyes to the Warlords pack.

He scouted along the Northern territories, keeping far from Winterfell. He determined how often the wolves of these lands moved about, how many loners strayed the icy north. The cold clung to his coat, to the air he breathed, until he missed the milder temperatures of home.

With that in mind, the Warlord would begin the long journey home, intel gathered, before he caught the familiar sight or Aurielle, and the less familiar one of the stranger. Stepping into view, and towering over both wolves, the dark Warlord let his eyes drift from one, to the other. “Aurelle, hello, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” he said, before turning his attention more solidly towards the stranger. Amusingly, the tawny coat of him reminded him of a mix between both his little healers. “I’m Sirius, Warlord of the Ashen Armada, and who might you be?” he asked of Askan, recognizing that Aurielle had never seen this man before either.