Forward we March!

 Friendly raid.

These words created a bitter, odd taste in the Sultan’s maw. The concept of a neutral battle between two kingdoms was completely foreign to him; he’d witnessed kings rise and fall, blood was commonly split and the spirit of war was a driving factor. But a friendly raid? And with the Armada - a pack whose former Warlord attacked him and banished him from their packlands. No, this wasn’t how Sephiran envisioned their fight raid occurring- fantasies of devastation, being cloaked in the blood of his enemies, the tyranny of his reign spreading fear throughout the regions. That was his vision.

But Rhazien had drilled the importance of this raid into his head. Friendly. Friendly. Friendly. If he were to abide by Rhazien’s request, they could prevent becoming enemies with the new Warlord. Enemies. Enemies. Enemies. It seemed the entire world was at Sephiran’s back, blades drawn, seeking his throat and death. War. War. War. But Rhazien believed he could prolong an assault from Artorias and his empire, if he cooperated. This may not have been how he envisioned his first raid- but Sephiran trusted his Uncle. He did not question his motives. He did not trigger paranoia in his mind. He would follow his guidance until he was proven wrong. 

Absinth’s patrolling ravens alerted them of the Armada’s arrival, the Warlord marching his wolves into the Polar Sound. Sephiran had been in his den, carefully sharpening his blade, when one of the birds came barreling into his domain. He’s quickly on his feet, slinging his battle gear on and summoning his companions. Following the increasing foreign scents, he lopes across his territory, honing in on the Armada wolves. 

He arrives just as a few battles start to break out. But he pays them no mind; his eyes roved the area for the massive, bear-like wolf Rhazien described as the Warlord. He finds him easily, given he’s the largest wolf there. Shifting his attention to his remaining warriors, he issues orders and commands them into the fray. The drums of battle start echoing through the valley, Sephirans resolve driving him forward as he makes his way to his opponent. 

His companions follow behind him, his falcon taking to the sky, ready to fight any airborne adversary Basilisk may have. His panther veers off to Sephiran’s right, ready to intercept any ground companions. His serpent, coiled loosely around his neck and rattling its rattle, seeks to protect his master's nape and throat, ready to strike with pinpoint accuracy. And Sephiran, with bared fangs, a bristled pelt, and a fearless determination to prove himself, initiates a battle with the Warlord. 

He lunges at him, jaws splayed and aiming for the connection between the base of his throat and his right shoulder. In sync, he’s throwing his weight forward, trying to slam into Basilisk with all of his might, to disrupt his balance. He’s smaller than the male, lighter too. But he is vicious and fearless; a formidable foe, under the right circumstances. 

There was no need for introductions right now- he would make his status as Sultan known after the fight, whether he won or lost. Right now, he was going to enjoy this raid to the best of his ability. 

"Sephiran Saxe"