That deafen us like hurricanes

It was time. The new Armada Warlord made his way to the Obelisk, which sat at the heart of the pack lands. Here was where his Grandfather had always called his meetings, and Basilisk saw no reason to change that tradition. He was too tall to need any sort of stage, but he placed a discreet flat stone beside where he intended to stand, so that he and Hazel could stand on equal footing.

The firepit sat at his back, a healthy flame burning in its depths. He could feel the warmth of it, a much needed respite from the cool evening air. Winter was marching steadily closer, and he held that reminder in his thoughts.

He waited for Hazel to arrive, and after she stood beside him, he raised his head and called for the pack; inviting them to come, and to ask any questions they wished.



"Basilisk Fatalis"