the bard's last note

He considered the golden wolf a threat to his home, a threat when already there was so much at stake, so much danger. He couldn’t fight the blight with teeth and claws, but this wolf… conveniently placed on his shoreline was a sudden outlet for the fear and frustration that had been gnawing away inside of him. This was a threat he could face.

He thundered across the beach, his sickness-ravaged frame gaining on the other wolf. Despite the dark, Basilisk could see remarkably well. There was a hint of slits in his eyes, a strange anomaly that also granted him the ability to see far better than the average wolf. As he chased this stranger, he was able to see the way the cloak fell about their frame as they stretched their body and limbs in an effort to outrun him. It was possible this wolf was in an even worse state than the Warlord.

The stranger's paws slipped on the sudden change of surface, and as he watched they went tumbling to the ground. He put on another burst of speed, taking advantage of the moment of weakness. His last step was more of a vault, one that ended his chase and landed him standing over the stranger. He pressed his teeth to their scruff and pulled their head back, exposing more of their form under the cloak. Putting him in Basilisk’s power.

For a brief moment, pain and anger surged inside of him. Volatile and compact from weeks of fear. Pushing him, urging him to end the threat here and now. He shuddered and breathed it out. If he killed this wolf, he wouldn’t understand the threat. He released his hold on the wolf's scruff so he could speak. “Why have you come here, what did you plant on my beach?” He snarled, hearing the trot of Orso’s hooves as the reindeer approached with the package.


"Basilisk"