white knight

The approaching storm had set a flurry of activity through the Armada. The howling winds ripped half constructed pens from their bases, picking up anything it pleased from its path as it blew through the centre of the Col. The goats were herded into the caverns, and preparations were set for the coming storm.

Amongst it all, a call went out at the border of the Col. Calling Basilisk away from the task at hand. He waited until another wolf could take over before he trotted to the border. The scent of snow heavy in the air. They were likely in for a blizzard.

He almost missed the white wolf at the border, the glint of red all that gave them away in the whipping wind and blanket of snow. “Greetings! You’ve reached the border of the Armada. I am Basilisk, it’s Warlord.” He called out, loud enough that the winds couldn’t steal all of his words.

"Basilisk Fatalis"