an Origin

The first word the stranger spat his way brought a smile to the Warlord's maw. An expression with a hint of teeth. He looked down at the silver damsel with blue eyes. His muzzle tilted at an angle to meet her gaze. Little indeed. The clouds shifted above them, and a hint of moon and starlight gave a little visual aid to the two strangers along the sandy shores of the bay. The battered state of the wolf stood out in stark contrast to the serenity of the beach. Her fur stiff with drying salt water told some of her tale.

Where is your Mistress the perplexing stranger asked then, and the Warlord stilled. As shocked as if she had slapped him. It had been a long, long time since the Warlord had called Deathbelle and her royal family ‘Mistress’ or ‘Princess’ and the other titles of deference that had followed their ranks. A long time since he had been a slave, property of another. He had shed that role with initial reluctance, but had shed it all the same. Now none would find him a subservient wolf. It took moments before his thoughts began to move again, and he realised she could not be referring to him as a slave of the Empire. An Empire long gone to dust, and its rulers with it.

No, her words had indicated something else, and he did not have the necessary information to decide what. Removing it from the context of his past, it was a perplexing statement indeed. “My Wife is at home, in the lands of Armada.” he said, choosing to decide she had caught the scent of his wife. “You may find shelter there as well. I am Sirius, its Warlord. I’ll lead you there…” He said, turning already. He did not yet know if he would add her to his lost ducklings. But he would not leave her out here in the cold either, battered and worn as she was.

"Speech"