this death will be art Those cursed sailors. They'd cast him ashore on claimed lands, and sailed away knowing damned well he wasn't going to do anything about it. The frail castaway nervously shuffled his paws on the edge of the surf, hood pulled close to his features as the chilly midnight air clawed at his scraggly pelt. By the smell of it, he was close to a border. Long, spindly limbs pulled him with as much haste as his aching muscles could muster, his few possessions carried in a small bag between his jaws. There was something... wrong here. The aromas on the breeze were distinctively sour, like a lingering sickness. Well... The gilded waif hesitated on the boundary between the dark sand beach and the craggy waterline at the foot of the lone peak. He could hear the rush of water tumbling from a great height along the slopes of the mountain, promising a drink of fresh water that made his stomach turn painfully at the thought. At the very least.. he could pay for his trespass, couldn't he? The tonics and tinctures hadn't been particularly useful for malnutrition, and thus far he'd been offering them up in exchange for safe passage and a place to stay the night as he fled the kingdom's reach. If the faint aroma of illness that he'd caught coming from further inland was some kind of lingering sickness or plague, the various concoctions would be more helpful for this pack than they would for himself. So he dropped his bag carefully upon the damp sand, shivering against the biting chill as he hurriedly rifled through his remaining rations and belongings. Ah, there. The small bottle of distilled oils and essences was removed with careful, trembling jaws. Gums pale with dehydration and starvation, nearly blending in with the sharp teeth that gripped the wax-sealed neck of the glass bottle. It was tiny, but it was better than nothing. He'd put the mixture together in the weeks prior to his exile, so he knew its efficacy well. At its side, he was quick to place an otterskin filled with a few extracts. The skin was waterproof when closed properly, in case he'd needed to swim anywhere. The small vials inside were a few different herbal extracts, namely peppermint for insect repellant and oregano to mask any remaining traces of his scent when he ventured into public. They were expensive, and he hoped that they would appease the inhabitants of the pack enough to keep them from hunting him down after his accidental trespass. For good measure, the skinny wolf flexed his freezing digits for a moment before he extended one slender digit towards the sand. His claw carved through the damp sand easily, forming a series of shapes and figures that he knew as easily as he knew the back of his own eyelids. The message would have been clear to anyone hailing from the lands where he'd been born, and his exhausted brain didn't pause to consider that not every region used the language, or writing. - Gifts of medicine and oils, payment for trespass. Apologies. - His good eye flashed in the light of the moon as he heard the snap of a twig, briefly illuminated amidst a break in the cloud cover that had hidden the ship's approach into the sheltered inlet. The runaway frantically searched for any sign of pursuers, and then hurriedly tied his satchel back up. There would be caves of some sort nearby, hopefully near the waterfall where he could get a drink. It was difficult to mask the tremendous effort required to lift the bag back off of the sand to make his escape again, his ailing figure hardly suited to a continued flight across the landscape. "speaking" -- "in another language"

Ships did not come close to the Armada shore, and though the mist left its approach subtle, the sharp eyes of his bird caught the gist of something moving. By the time Basilisk made his careful approach to the sands, he could see the hint of a ship on the horizon. Sailing away. He frowned, unnerved by the strange occurrence - until Larimar caught his attention with a tug on his ear, and indicated the sandy wolf making a break through Armada territory. Clearly heading for the other side.

Whatever his intentions, Basilisk didn’t intend to let him slip by. He sent Orso to scoop up whatever the wolf had left behind on the beach. Basilisk himself fell into a ground eating loop, one that intended to cut off the intruder from his exit. Exhausted and sick as he was, there was a chance he might fail.


"Basilisk"

this death will be art The darkness was suddenly alive with motion, thunderous steps crossing the beach at a rate that promised a gruesome demise. It was too dark for him to determine who or what was giving chase, but the existence of pursuers was more than enough to overcome the exhaustion that had settled into his marrow. Gripping his bag with all of the strength he could muster, the frail golden male skittered across the hard packed sand. Maybe the gifts would distract them. Maybe that would grant him the extra time that he needed to get away. All manner of possibilities, and not a single certainty among them. There was a chance he could get away, if his legs were longer than the ones giving chase. The looming bulk of the mountain was barely more than a smear of jet black against a coal black sky, blotting out the stars as the only sign of its presence. The half-dead wolf still wasn't used to having only one eye, and his steps were not sure enough. There was the faint, unmistakable clink of glass against glass, and some spark of hope ignited in the back of his mind. Please, please. Take them. Don't kill me. The creature giving chase was gaining easily, showing no signs of slowing- and there was some type of bird overhead calling out an alert. Panic gnawed at his chest, making it even harder to breathe. The transition from sand to pebbles on the beach was far more sudden than he'd anticipated, and the slick stones should have been a cue to slow down. Instead, he pushed his starved frame harder across the shifting substrate, the hood of his cloak slipping away from his skull in his haste to create a beacon of golden fur amidst the dark surroundings. The castaway's shoulder collided with the ground before he even knew he'd tripped, knocking the wind out of him. A tangle of limbs and a ribcage suddenly empty of all air, covered in the dark wool of an oversized cloak. The fabric of his bag had been all that had kept his skull from colliding with the rough ground, though he'd lost his grip on it by the time he'd hit the ground. His throat worked to draw air back into his lungs, releasing a few guttural choking noises before he could issue a weak gasp. It burned all the way down his throat, and seemed to set the rest of his body alight with the pain it had refrained from feeling. A myriad of soon-to-be bruises and scrapes from head to tail, certain to hurt far worse in the morning. Worse yet, there was some manner of terrible monster standing over him. "speaking" -- "in another language"

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"

this death will be art Teeth against- no, around his neck. The grip on his scruff easily sank into the flesh on either side of his thin neck. Enormous teeth. Canine teeth. The musk that overwhelmed his senses was distinctly lupine, and painfully masculine. He could feel hot breath against his skin, ruffling the fur of nape and flattened ears. The shudder of powerful muscles that held him under a gargantuan paw could have crushed him easily. The gilded runaway didn't move. Limp in the grasping jaws of his pursuer- his captor. Lest those jaws close upon his neck and put an end to all of his hard work. The seconds seemed to stretch unto infinity, until all at once his head was dropped unceremoniously onto the beach. Hoarse vocals growled a question that was really a demand. It took a few precious seconds to realize the language was not his native tongue, seconds that he truly didn't have to spare. Swallowing around the harsh dryness in his throat, he found his tongue heavy as lead within his maw. Now wasn't the time to be tongue tied. Speak. Speak or die. "This was as far as the boat would take me." the words were barely a whisper, wheezy as he struggled to refill his lungs. The accent that clung to his words was a fatal mistake, marking him as an outsider. Betraying his origins to a discerning ear. "I left.. medicines. Perfumes. I could smell- sickness here." stilted and awkward words, hardly befitting a man of his breeding. If there wasn't the threat of death, and the lingering effects of starvation, perhaps he might have been a bit more eloquent. His tongue felt somehow too big and too small for his mouth, the rush of blood in his ears louder than the raggedness of his breathing. "Gifts, to apologize. For trespassing. I did not know until- until it was too late." the monumental effort of mustering the explanation of his presence was wearing on him already. Adrenaline fading, energy waning with each beat of his beleaguered heart. "Please let me go. I mean no harm. You'll never see me again, I was just passing through." there was a proud prince somewhere in the back of his mind cringing at the pathetic begging, reminding a day in the not so distant past where he'd begged for his life far more pathetically. Was this the man he was meant to be? "speaking" -- "in another language"

He pressed a paw against the wolf’s back ensuring they - he, as the scent told him - couldn’t escape. Not when he’d almost given him the slip in the mad dash along the beach. Orso finished his arrival, and Basilisk nodded to his Wyrm, Larimar. The strange, one of a kind creature flitted forward on her bat wings and curled her snake-like tail around the reindeer's antlers to anchor herself before pairing into the bag. She hissed agreement, the golden wolf spoke true.

Basilisk however grimaced. Was their weakness so immediately obvious to outsiders? “Fate has handed you a bad hand, wolf. You’ve entered blighted territory. I can’t in good conscience let you leave and spread it when we’re trying so hard to quarantine it.” His voice didn’t sound regretful, despite his words. Had he decided to let this wolf live, then? He regretted the loss of chance to rend flesh and sooth his frustrations. He settled with unsheathing his cat-like claws and flexing them into the coat on the wolf's back.

He didn’t let the wolf up, keeping that giant paw pressed into their back. “Welcome to the Armada, wolf. You belong to me now.”


"Basilisk"

this death will be art His half-blind gaze shuttered at the words blighted territory. He'd been correct. How cruel. Worse yet, he was being forced into a quarantine for such a brief trespass. For a brief moment, a flash of rage bloomed in his gut- wouldn't be exposed if you hadn't given chase- and it was gone just as quickly as it had come. He'd treated all manner of blights and plagues in his young life, having lingered on the fringes of the kingdom tending to the sick and the downtrodden. This was simply the way of the world. It didn't make the white-hot pinpricks of claws digging into the thin, weak flesh around his spine any more bearable. Head resting on the last of his worldly possessions, limbs sprawled awkwardly across the cold, wet sand- prostrated beneath yet another subjugator. Yet again a victim of life's many cruel jokes. Not even strong enough to struggle, as the last dregs of adrenaline gave way to shock. The sand was sapping the warmth from his underbelly, whatever of it he had left by now. Armada. Funny. He'd commanded one of those before. Relinquished it to his overbearing brother rather quickly. Though he hardly relished the thought of belonging to another creature, it was at least marginally preferable to a gruesome death. The ominous weight of a much larger body concentrated upon a broad paw, splayed across his back in such a way that it spanned his entire narrow ribcage. Sodden lashes fluttered weakly as he lifted his gaze upwards, a slow and arduous motion that brought the looming figure of his captor into partial view. Only some of him. The glint of enormous fangs, of brilliant cerulean markings. Plumes of mist wreathing a titanic skull as each breath was forced out into the cold midnight air. A rare moment of delirious spite, paired with golden ears pinned tight to his battered skull. The subtle tilt of his features to better frame the immense wolf within the gaze of his functional eye. "And what does this make me, then- a lab rat?" he questioned, making a pitiful show of hiding the terror that sunk into his marrow at the very thought. "speaking" -- "in another language"

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"

this death will be art It wasn't quite as reassuring as it should have been, to find out he wasn't going to become a victim to thousands of tests in order to cure the blight from these lands. Being owned meant existing entirely at the mercy of another, and that could entail grisly experimentation if push came to shove. He'd seen it before. Desperate lords eager to cure ailments at the cost of their vassals, because those vassals were barely more than the soil they tilled. He kept his mouth shut. Lowered his gaze to watch the steady ebb and flow of the waves lapping at the shore. The ship that had dumped him here was already barely a spec upon the horizon, and no doubt those aboard it were laughing about his plight. The lessening of the weight upon his frail spine was a relief, and he found himself sucking in a deeper breath. The ache in his ribs was profound, and he worried about how many he'd broken. At least three. Perhaps mere fractures- it would require closer attention. He didn't move. Couldn't. Perhaps if he simply laid down and died here on the beach.. But already his captor was making demands. Making a point of his detecting sickness, of his precious parcels of medicines. And then the fateful query. A name. He hesitated, the reality of his new existence brought to the forefront of his attention. Forsaken titles springing unbidden to his lips, only to become ash upon his tongue. "Pluto, sir." he said instead. That was all he was now, a childhood nickname that only his sisters called him. "I was.. training to be a doctor." the words were offered up haltingly, carefully. No more than he needed to betray, until he knew this place better. Knew this man for what he was in the light of day. "speaking" -- "in another language"

Basilisk sat back, giving the wolf a little more freedom when he didn’t immediately lunge away from him or to him. He rested on the edge of the sandy beach, his eyes on the stranger. Despite the darkness and the hint of fog rolling in from the sea, he could see the man quite clearly. His breathing was hesitant, and something was wrong with one of his eyes. He was a sorry wolf indeed. “I’m Basilisk Fatalis. This doesn't have to be a terrible thing, Pluto. Your friends don’t seem to have treated you well.” He nodded his head towards the vanishing ship.

“If your knowledge is useful, your position will rise quickly.” He offered a paw to the wolf to help him up if he chose so. “I dread pulling my healer away from his studies of the blight. How badly are you injured? I see you're struggling with your ribs… and your eye?” He was a scrawny, little thing. The need to rend his flesh had all but vanished by now. He was not an intruder, he was something of the Warlord himself. He belonged to him.


"Basilisk"

this death will be art The very soil trembled as the titanic wolf settled onto his rump. The heat of his body was still palpable, he hadn't dared to leave too much distance between them. Probably a smart move, when the captive was anything more than a carcass running on fear and threats of violence. Somewhat redundant for Pluto, who was exactly that. The wolf introduced himself from somewhere over his shoulder, a name with roots that harkened back to the gilded male's homeland in a way that made his heart squeeze painfully. He tried to be reassuring, commenting on how this wasn't guaranteed to be a terrible fate. His words were barely registering in the beleaguered mind of the battered runaway, as he peeled himself slowly from the ground. Aching ribs pulling painfully under his withered musculature, bruised limbs arranging into some approximation of sitting. Stiff, frozen digits carefully scooped the small bag of his belongings into the space closest to his underbelly and awkwardly rearranging the cloak about his shoulders. He prayed that if he hid the bag from view, it wouldn't be stolen. One violet eye turned towards the horizon, and he couldn't help scoffing a little as he quickly looked away and down to his sodden paws. The very act of disdain was painful now, reminding him why he had never wasted much energy on it in the past. Tonight was a collective of many moments of poor judgement and actions. "They are not the first, they will not be the last." he said simply, voice raspy now. The giant, Basilisk, rose to his paws. Evidently they were finished here. There were promises of rising through the ranks if his skills were useful. The gilded runaway knew he was well learned, a testament to the wealth of an ancient lineage with vast reserves of information and connections. There was every chance he would find himself teaching the wolves of these new lands in no time. Yet.. the lingering anxiety of possible failure loomed. Even in a mind wracked with maladies aplenty, on the verge of shutting down entirely, there was room for fear. He accepted the outstretched limb, a veritable tree trunk of muscle and bone, gingerly pulled himself back onto unsteady, skinny limbs. At the offer of seeing a lead healer, he shook his head mutely. The doctor would not be able to offer any aid that Pluto wouldn't be able to manage on his own. Ribs were tricky, they couldn't be set or pinned. Only bound up and treated with great care until the bone healed itself. He kept his head low, gripped his bag with the side of his maw that was opposite his captor. Trying as best as he could to keep it out of sight, out of curious hands. "After some rest, I will be able to find out which ones are broken." soft vocals, that familiar timidity settling over him with the same familiarity as his cloak. It kept him alive. "The eye is beyond saving." his movements were short, his limbs unsteady, breathing in short gasps to avoid straining his chest. Pluto was shivering again, fine fur of his underbelly coated in dark sand and clinging moisture that stole whatever heat he could manifest. "Thank you for your concern, sir." he gritted his teeth against the chattering that was starting to set in against his will. Dropped his half blind gaze respectfully, awkwardly shook his cloak to adjust the way it fell over his flanks. He was too tired to do much else but stand and await orders, swaying lightly every now and again as he battled with the weariness that bogged down his very soul. "speaking" -- "in another language"

Basilisk looked down at his captive, until movement caught his eye. Orso, who had come up on the other side of Pluto, remained there still. Larimar was indicating something before the gold wolf. Indeed, the man's actions seemed a little sketchy as he moved carefully to keep something hidden from view.

Leaning forward, the colossal giant of a wolf stretched over Pluto and found the bag he was trying to hide just out of view. He pressed a paw against Pluto’s chest, and snagged the bag with his teeth. Ensuring the smaller wolf could do nothing to stop him. Resistance was futile against a wolf the size of the Warlord.

“I’ll hang onto this until my Consort has a chance to ensure there's nothing dangerous here.” He said thoughtfully, nudging the golden wolf. “Let's get you into the caverns, they’re heated by an underground miasma.” He said, as if he hadn’t just taken everything the golden wolf owned in an afterthought.


"Basilisk"

this death will be art There was a small reindeer standing at his side, lingering near his head and close to the bag that was gripped between his aching teeth. Any other wolf would have growled, snarled- anything to protest the threat to his possessions. Then an odd serpent closed in from the front, the undulating motions of its body hypnotic enough to keep him fixated upon its approach. So the sudden presence of a colossal paw on his chest was a surprise, its breadth swallowing his breast beneath its strong digits. The sheer size of his captor was enough that he merely craned his neck over Pluto's body to find out what the animals alerted to. His heart hammered against his ribs, and instinctively he lowered his head, curled himself around the precious few belongings he'd been able to retain. He didn't make a sound. There was nothing in there worth taking- a few more bottles of herbal extracts, the numbers had been dwindling from the start of his journey. The soft, lightweight fabrics that had once been draped over his head and neck on hot days to guard from the sun- gauzy and plainly embroidered. A tiny pillow roughly sewn from scraps of various fabrics, a gift from his sister when they were barely more than infants learning to craft. The sensation of Basilisk gripping the edge of the worn linen, his massive teeth lifting it up and away, it shattered the fragile illusion of self-control that he'd been mustering the whole time. Tears filled his eyes and tumbled freely down his gaunt cheeks, and he held fast to the bag for a moment or two longer than he should. "Please.." he keened weakly, though he quickly lost the grip upon his possessions and watched through blurred vision as everything was taken away. Held just out of his reach, but not so far that he couldn't see it all the while. Somehow that was worse. Trembling limbs struggled to keep him upright in that moment, a battle simply to keep from collapsing onto the sand again to weep. Though Basilisk insisted he would get everything back- there wasn't anything useful in there anymore, aside from a few remaining strips of jerky and travel breads, and the remains of his extracts- part of him knew that he wouldn't be seeing the bag again. Quickly he was being ushered away, towards the looming silhouette of a mountain range that reared up from the edge of the black sands. He was being taken into the caverns, supposedly heated from below. Volcanic? He couldn't detect any of the sulphur that would mark the peaks as volcanic, but perhaps they were long dormant. He nodded weakly, keeping his head down and following as best he could with the short, pained strides he could muster. At least he might be allowed to rest soon. "Am I to begin my duties immediately?" rasping vocals spoke gently, emotion carefully reigned in, though his eyes remained glassy. "Or.. may I rest? Just until sunrise." his expectations were guarded, Pluto made a point to focus all of his attention upon the ground as he took each step. Another fall would be disastrous. "speaking" -- "in another language"

The wolf he had claimed seemed shaken by the sudden and unexpected events that had befallen him. Alas, his audience was indifferent as Basilisk lightly tossed the strap of the bag over one of Orso’s antlers and led the boy away. It wasn’t a long walk to the towering mountains of his home. Ushered between Basilisk and the deer, the golden wolf wouldn't have many chances to escape. Judging by the way his single good eye fixated on the earth as his paws, Basilisk wondered if escaping was beyond him.

He led the small pack up the slope into the pack's training den. Using it as a quick entrance into the Col and towards the heart of his home. He was leading Pluto to his own den. There was a spare room there where they could situate the wolf. With food and blankets to spare.

As they approached the door he let out a warning chuff to Ignita to inform her that he had company, before pushing through. “Keep walking down, take the room on the left” He ordered, turning right himself, towards the room he shared with Ignita.


"Basilisk"

Her least favorite pastime. Sitting in bed and waiting. She was a lot more of a social wolf than she realized, and she was lonely as she was stuck on bed rest until the babies were born. Every movement was a strain and she could no longer tuck her paws under her either. She lay on her side, her eyes on the doorway, hoping for someone to visit her in the dim den light. She hadn't been able to tend to the hearth and torches to keep the room lit either. She wished Spider was here, they were always a wonderful friend to talk to.

She could hear the heavy steps of her lover on the stairs, he was usually quiet but he was making extra effort to let her know he was coming. The chuff at the door was a signal that someone was with him. Her tail bounced on the bed as she lifted her head. A warm smile ready to greet him and their guest. She tilted her head though as the tone in his voice was directed to someone unknown and typically reserved for ordering a songbird around.

"A new playmate, darling?" She teased, her eyes full of mischief. He liked to find new toys. Would he be parading this one before her to spark her jealousy again?

"Speech"

this death will be art Just like that, his belongings were taken. Slung haphazardly about the sturdy antlers of the reindeer with the gentle clinking of glass against keratin. And then they were moving. The persistent increase in elevation left him struggling to keep his breathing even. He truly was a shell of his former self, who once summited peaks like this with ease. One paw in front of the other, moving up a well worn path that crept up the slope towards a yawning cavern. There was the shelter he'd sought, though now it felt like a mockery of safe haven. Flanked by a titanic wolf and the reindeer, the margin for error brought about by his unsteady gait was slim. He did not want to press his luck by stumbling into Basilisk, lest it be seen as an attack. So he moved as steadily as he could, at a snails pace compared to what was being set by the giant at his side. Almost instantly upon stepping into the cavern, the breeze that clawed at his overstimulated nerve endings vanished. There was only the comforting weight of his cloak, and the sounds of steps upon cool stone. The lack of response from his captor about the anticipated beginning of his toil was not promising. Pluto knew better than to ask again, to test boundaries to soon after his indenture. The smell of wolves was almost overpowering in the confines of the stone walled tunnels of the cave system, speaking to a strong membership. Underneath it all, that oddly sour-sweet smell. Not like rot, but with the undercurrents of pungent decay that spoke to a deeply rooted blight. It came and went as they moved, all the while Pluto's body screamed for relief from the constant motion of his strides. Currents of air wafting from other entrances? Perhaps individual sources of the illness, victims infected with the mystery plague. He would almost certainly have time to investigate. The heavy strides of the dark wolf at his side slowed as they approached one of the entryways into an offshoot cavern, no doubt used as a den. There was another scent wafting from in and around the cave, a feminine aroma. The wolf's mate, perhaps? The low, whuffing call that Basilisk issued as he stepped through- entering before Pluto and leaving the reindeer to keep him moving forwards. The skinny runaway crept carefully past the threshold, tipping his head to grant his functional eye a better view of the massive room. It was dark, no doubt its inhabitants were meant to be fast asleep at this hour. His captor directed him to the left in a tone that left no room for argument, and with one careful sweep of his surroundings, he found a short tunnel that led away to his left. "Yes, sir." he said simply, ducking his head and picking up his leaden paws. Without a word of question, he picked his way through the darkened room and towards what would no doubt be his quarters for the duration of his servitude. Over his shoulder, he could hear the soft lyrics of a she-wolf. Though the exact words remained a mystery, he was a little too far away to pick anything up clearly. The tones were gentle, playful. There was no malice in the echoing whispers of her unintelligible words. So the captive found himself standing in a dark, surprisingly warm space that was larger than a closet, for certain. He swayed lightly on his paws, wheezed around the pain in his chest. The night had been far too eventful, and he was far too exhausted to properly respond to it any longer. Carefully, oh so gingerly, he set himself down on his haunches facing the archway that he'd stepped through. Waiting for orders, for punishment. Whatever followed. "speaking" -- "in another language"

Basilisk took the time to kiss his wife's cheek, and grin at her. It was a wonder he still managed to bring home Songbirds, despite the restrictions on the pack. But this one came with a very strange tale. “It was the strangest thing. I almost missed it in the fog-” but his eyesight was stronger than most wolves, as she well knew. “-but a ship entered the cove and dropped him off. He tried to dash through Armada territories. He claimed this was as far as the bot would take him, but entering our secluded cove is unusual.” He finished, leaning back from his kiss to see what she thought of this odd tale.

Orso entered the den then, the bag still swinging on his horns. Ah, yes, he’d almost forgotten. He pulled it down from the deer's antlers and handed it over to Ignita. “He tried to hide this from me, see if you can figure out anything about him from it, ensure there's nothing in there unsafe and then come join us?” He managed, at the last moment, to make it sound like a request.

He kissed her other cheek, and withdrew, heading into their little supply den first to fetch some food, water, and bedding. He finally made his way to the den on the left where he had instructed their new songbird to go. He found the wolf on his haunches on the floor, looking weary to the bone. He didn’t bring light, forgetting as he sometimes did that not all wolves could see as clearly in the dark. He laid out the bedding to the side and brought the food to the Songbird. “Eat up, you’ll need your strength” he instructed.


"Basilisk"

Ignita hummed and leaned gently into his tender kiss. She lived for those small moments with him. She looked up at him as he told the tale, titling her skull curiously. He had her full attention.

She furrowed her brow at the scene he painted for her. A boat dropped this one off in the cove, there surely there places to drop him off that would be easier.

She hummed in thought as Oso stepped in, "If you hadn't seen the boat I'd be more suspicious. I haven't heard of anyone on the continent using boats regularly, so unless you have enemies on the mainland... It might be a coincidence, he couldn't be some spy." She murmured. Her paws crossed daintily as she spoke. She was always willing to give the benefit of the doubt or offer a different perspective.

She shifted her weight to allow Basilisk to give her the satchel for her to investigate and offered him a warm smile at the invitation. Finally, something to do! She nodded as she took the satchel and fished through it. Offering him her own kiss on his cheek as he withdrew to tend to his new songbird.

Hmm... The bag itself was worn, She could tell it had been cared for though, and had a distinct smell to it that was somehow... familiar...? She took in a deep breath and suddenly her vision was filled with golden sand and hot sun, colorful curtains and fabric, draperies, and rich foods. She didn't know what this meant and a twang of fear ran a course through her body. Was this interloper a wolf of her old queens court? Coming to take her back? No, no, that couldn't be. She shook her had and preceded to pull out a lightweight fabric, worn, covered in sweat and dust, a familiar garment for all social ranks to keep with them out in the desert heat. The plain embroidery wasn't anything particularly memory inducing but either he had the funds to purchase it or someone embroidered it for him. A tiny pillow made from scraps, aged, and well loved. This she could decipher the stitching to be young and unskilled. Practice for a highborn lady. Then the soft clink-clink and out spilled a paltry few expensive bottles. Heavy with herbal extracts. She double checked the lining and bottom of the bag for any secret compartments. Nope, the stitching all looked the same.

She stashed each item back in the back and hefted her heavily pregnant body up off the bed to walk with the satchel to the little room. It was at one point the room she had used a few times while she was healing from her accident.

She placed the bag at Basilisk's paw and slowly lowered her hinds with a sigh next to him. The new songbird was a bright golden color, starving, bruised... blinded... She couldn't place him as someone she knew exactly... But something about him was strangely familiar. Did he or his family attend her old queen's many and copious parties? Or was he a servant of one of the houses that had attended? His coloring was fairly common of her homeland... but the purple eyes... eye was rare.

"He's a healer, a young highborn lady loved him at one point... and He's from a desert kingdom." She flashed a wary look with Basilisk, "Nothing else within."

"Who are you?" She asked the skinny male, her tone more command than curious. She needed to know, was he some emissary of her queen-mother sent out to find her and drag her back?

"Speech"

this death will be art He was not left waiting long, and soon enough there was a hulking figure filling the doorway. The scent of meat caught his nares immediately, and his stomach lurched in a mixture of hunger and sickness. Bile heaved itself into his esophagus, his gut wrenched by the promise of real food. The gentle susurrating of fabric against stone promised something soft to lay upon, and soon Basilisk dropped food at his feet. Instructed him to eat. Could he even do that anymore? "T- thank you, sir." Surviving on his rations had tightened his stomach, and though he couldn't help the droplets of saliva that collected at the corners of his maw, the rational portion of his brain bade him be cautious. Could it be laced with sedatives? Perhaps poisoned in some way? Even if it wasn't, eating all of it at once would make him sick almost immediately. He lowered his skull cautiously, the very action shaky and unsteady as the muscles of his slender neck strained. The scent was clean as could be, he knew his poisons well enough to be able to detect traces in his meals. So he nibbled gently at the offered meal, letting tiny morsels slide over his tongue and into his stomach. He forced himself to stop quickly, in time to watch someone else enter the room. She carried his bag, and he resisted the urge to reach for it. The way she settled so close beside Basilisk spoke to their ties, and her bulky figure in the low light was enough to dissuade him from any notions of testing his luck. Not that he could, by now. His strength was all but gone after that trek. She spoke to his past, and did so with remarkable insight. Instinctively his hackles bristled, and he had to force himself to withhold any emotion. Giving himself away would be certain death, if not now then later. Young highborn lady? He wasn't certain where she'd pulled that from, other than perhaps the little shards of sentimentality that had been pilfered from the boundaries of the kingdom within the bag. When the pale queen demanded to know who he was, it was difficult to withhold his proper titles. The act of divulging his family name was so reflexive, ingrained into his marrow for as long as he could remember. Instead, "Pluto, my lady. I am from the west- a scrubland desert." he stumbled a little, heavy tongue once again tripping over the simplest of syllables. Achingly slowly, he turned his skull to better fix his gaze upon her. He could see little more than the outline of her form, the variations of hue across her body. "speaking" -- "in another language"

Ignita entered the den with the bag, which she placed at his paw. He leaned lightly against her, content to show affection, possession in front of others. He kissed her brow, feeling the girth of her stomach against his side. Did he feel a tiny puppy kick? He didn’t let himself get distracted. He turned his attention back to Pluto, who was eating the meal the Warlord had laid out in front of him.

They were both from desert kingdoms? That was… unexpected. Though they both shared sandy colours in their coats. He could almost feel himself bristling, and he didn’t entirely know why. He tossed the bag carelessly at Pluto. “You may have this.” He allowed, as if returning the boy's belongings was a gracious gift. “You’ll remain in this den, and you will assist Ignita with our puppies when they are born. As well as using what healing knowledge you have to assist Oleander with the Blight.” He instructed the golden wolf, pausing to see if Ignita had any further questions for him.

"Basilisk"