Talking Shop

The Warlord had been throwing himself into work of late. There was so much to do. The waters had finally soaked into the ground, but the temperatures in the caverns were chillier than usual. It was taking a long time for things to dry, and the majority of the pack were denning in the training cavern for the meantime. The Warlord was not safe to sleep around. A concern that had cropped up multiple times in his life. Generally whenever great concerns were eating away at him, and pushed down, ignored. ”All of us are living with mom's ghost, but you're the only one not living in your shadow."

He looked back at the soggy, last remaining contents of the packs stores with a sigh, before turning his head to the wind. It wouldn’t do to miss a summons at the borders. To let others know of the Armada's weakness. He headed to the woods at a trott, and found a shivering, tiny thing at the borders. Before he approached, he turned to Bast. “Grab a coat, there's an Ox coat that’s dry” He muttered, keeping his voice quite so the other wolf wouldn’t hear. Bast hesitated, glancing at him, and the Warlord held her gaze steadily until she acquiesced. He finished his trot to the border, and looked at the little wolf. “I’m Sirius, Warlord of the Armada. What brings you to my border?” He recognised her scent, of course.

"Speech"