an Origin

In the last fading whispers of autumn, the Warlord made his way East from home. Moving through lands rich with memory as he passed the Weeping Woods, and the Lovers' Mangrove. Here he had taught one of his sons to fish, here he had watched the stars with his eldest daughter. He had shown his oldest grandson how to track the prints of a leopard by that sheltered grove.

The darkness of the cloudy night bothered him not at all as he moved further West. The familiarity of the lands dropped away as he moved to places he visited with less frequency in his long life. It wasn’t until he reached Fontama Bay and scented Abaven on the breeze that he paused. Looking up towards the cliffs as Bast alerted beside him. A glance at the snow leopard told him something along the shore had caught her eye. Trusting the instincts of his longtime companion he stilled. Tasting the breeze and listening to the sound of waves as they broke against the shore.

There, he found it after a moment. The wolf of silver and shadows blended into the darkness and the sand. But knowing where to look, he could see her form and the staggered direction of her steps. He watched for a moment, a hunter in the darkness. Considering. A breath, five more, and Bast cleared her throat beside him. A rebuke that broke his stillness. The Warlord sighed softly, but there was amusement in it. He started forward, to discover what trouble he might be bringing Armada’s way now. “Have you lost your bearings, little wolf?” He asked, voice soft as he stopped again a pace away from her.

"Sirius Fatalis"