Set the traps and stomp the grounds

The Warlord was well accustomed to getting himself out of bed in the earliest hours of the mornings. It wasn’t rising that was his problem, it was finding sleep in the first place. He looked fondly back at his tired wife as she rubbed at her eyes and grumbled. She claimed a lack of hunger, likely sick of her husband tossing food in front of her at all hours of the day.

“Come on, let's get you that coat then” he said, bumping lightly against the smaller wolf and making his way towards the center of the pack. As he feared, the firepit was sodden, and the spare wood sheltered to the side had managed to get damp in the heavy wings. Shaking his head at that, he decided he could at least get his wife a warm coat.

He looked at the cellar door, and frowned, an odd scent catching his nose. He hooked a claw through the latch and pulled it open. The scent of dampness growing. He stepped down, and landed with a splash. It took only a glance to realise that everything was covered in a sour, greasy sort of water. He hurried to the section that stored their food, and found every piece of winter storage slimy and soaking. “SHIT!”


"Sirius Fatalis"