the bard's last note

Basilisk stood silently over his prisoner for a moment. Another wolf to the Armada, another to the ranks of his worries. Perhaps he was a foolish wolf, but already that strand was wrapping about this golden wolf. Mine. It was a two way street, a cost to both of them. “You will be no such thing, unless you request it.” He said, forceful at first, and then ending on a thoughtful note.

He loosened his grip on the wolf, enough that he could move and even pull free if he chose to. Of course, any sudden movements would be punished swiftly. Basilisk was not a trusting wolf. “You scented sickness in the air, and carried herbs. You know something, and I plan to use it. What is your name, wolf?”


"Basilisk"