Theokleia awoke with a desperate, strangled gasp that immediately turned into a series of wracking coughs, each violent compress of her ribcage expelling a stream of water from her mouth. Her limbs jerked, paws scrabbling for a surface, while her mind reeled in a swirl of darkness, pain, and chaos; she knew only the instinct for survival. A pressure began at her throat as she thrashed, causing her to struggle more furiously, until - nearly at her limit - it released with a thunderous ‘crack!’ Her body plummeted a short distance before colliding with the ground, leaving her stunned and panting. She didn’t move.     It took time (seconds, minutes - unknown) to rebuild her consciousness; navigating through the assault on her senses was even more difficult. She was injured, that much was evident, and while she was bruised and battered, none of her limbs were broken. Her muscles screamed with every breath. The air was wet and salty, stinging her flesh where it was torn. Her fur was damp and cold. Sand clung to her nostrils. The sky was dark and cloudy, lit only by a few stars and a shadowed waning moon. Water lapped against a shore in a rhythmic hum; the sound enveloped her. Her mind groped about for an explanation but found none, still hazy. Move, something deep and primal inside of her urged. She knew she had to, but the thought of the daunting task was enough to elicit an audible groan. Move. Theokleia reluctantly obeyed, turning first to her stomach before heaving forward into a sitting position, propping herself up on whatever was immediately near. Her lips thinned, jaws clenching to hold back a cry.     The night yawned, and the sea sounded endless.  Her thoughts drifted aimlessly and she struggled not to fall asleep. Somewhere, she knew she had a concussion. The rough, solid feeling at her back made her wonder what she was leaning against: the side of a giant driftwood tree, with arching limbs broken in the pattern of her fall. Her eyes narrowed in question, brows furrowing in tandem to a down-turned twist of her lips. She remembered… she remembered… A shiver wracked her shoulders, consuming the whole of her attention. Move. Yes, she needed to move. She needed shelter. She needed warmth. In a daze, she pushed herself onto all four of her paws and swung her gaze opposite the ocean.       Swaying unsteadily, she took a step and tried to find the strength to take another one. She did, and then the process began anew.

In the last fading whispers of autumn, the Warlord made his way East from home. Moving through lands rich with memory as he passed the Weeping Woods, and the Lovers' Mangrove. Here he had taught one of his sons to fish, here he had watched the stars with his eldest daughter. He had shown his oldest grandson how to track the prints of a leopard by that sheltered grove.

The darkness of the cloudy night bothered him not at all as he moved further West. The familiarity of the lands dropped away as he moved to places he visited with less frequency in his long life. It wasn’t until he reached Fontama Bay and scented Abaven on the breeze that he paused. Looking up towards the cliffs as Bast alerted beside him. A glance at the snow leopard told him something along the shore had caught her eye. Trusting the instincts of his longtime companion he stilled. Tasting the breeze and listening to the sound of waves as they broke against the shore.

There, he found it after a moment. The wolf of silver and shadows blended into the darkness and the sand. But knowing where to look, he could see her form and the staggered direction of her steps. He watched for a moment, a hunter in the darkness. Considering. A breath, five more, and Bast cleared her throat beside him. A rebuke that broke his stillness. The Warlord sighed softly, but there was amusement in it. He started forward, to discover what trouble he might be bringing Armada’s way now. “Have you lost your bearings, little wolf?” He asked, voice soft as he stopped again a pace away from her.

"Sirius Fatalis"

The attention that she had drawn escaped her bruised mind and, as a result, she did not notice the two predatory beasts approaching her until they were just a few paces away. They appeared suddenly, as if by magic, and surprised her into pure reaction; her aching body jerked an unsteady half-step away, ears twisting uneasily to each side of her head while her upper lip threatened to display a set of fangs. A low growl began in her throat as she stared, dazed and confused. It took her a moment to grasp what she was seeing: an onyx giant with giant viper-like canines that extended beyond its jawline, accompanied by a giant feline patterned in cream, tan, and dark spotted rosettes. A mirage, a nightmare, or a hallucination? As if it were also stunned, the insistent voice that had urged her to move was silent. As her gaze followed their appearance, her expression grew slack with a childlike curiosity.      ‘Have you lost your bearings, little-wolf?’ It was only too obvious that she had, indeed, lost her bearings. The sound of his (yes, masculine) voice was like a lifeline to her roiling mind, giving her an anchor with which to steady. However, the small amount of sobriety was accompanied by an undercurrent of indignation.  The bridge of her nose wrinkled. “Little?” she snapped in protest, the word spitting out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider it - an uncharacteristically impulsive action, a direct side-effect of her brain injury. The insult to her stature (on the taller side of average, thank you) distracted her to the point that it no longer bothered her that she was towered over as if she was still tiny and adolescent. It was as if the swarthy beast in front of her was a Titan from the legends of old, effortlessly exuding strength and predatory grace, but this truth was smothered by irritation. It simultaneously escaped her notice that the great feline was, in fact, quite solid.      However, his lack of a womanly chaperone stood out as a dramatic breach of propriety. How inappropriate! Theokleia straightened as best she could, which was only slightly, sweeping unfocused eyes over the bay before deciding that the action hurt and returning her attention to the errant wolf. “Where is your Mistress?” There was a cloud of disapproval in her tone of voice, sharp with thunderclaps of accusation. Another shiver ran down her spine and through her limbs before she could question him further,  prompting her to redirect. "O-oh, nevermind!" she said quickly, teeth chattering, having rationalized that it was simply not her responsibility to monitor an unattended Lykopi (especially while her thoughts seemed so spongey, her body broken). That was a problem for another time (or wolf).   “Shelter. Where?”

The first word the stranger spat his way brought a smile to the Warlord's maw. An expression with a hint of teeth. He looked down at the silver damsel with blue eyes. His muzzle tilted at an angle to meet her gaze. Little indeed. The clouds shifted above them, and a hint of moon and starlight gave a little visual aid to the two strangers along the sandy shores of the bay. The battered state of the wolf stood out in stark contrast to the serenity of the beach. Her fur stiff with drying salt water told some of her tale.

Where is your Mistress the perplexing stranger asked then, and the Warlord stilled. As shocked as if she had slapped him. It had been a long, long time since the Warlord had called Deathbelle and her royal family ‘Mistress’ or ‘Princess’ and the other titles of deference that had followed their ranks. A long time since he had been a slave, property of another. He had shed that role with initial reluctance, but had shed it all the same. Now none would find him a subservient wolf. It took moments before his thoughts began to move again, and he realised she could not be referring to him as a slave of the Empire. An Empire long gone to dust, and its rulers with it.

No, her words had indicated something else, and he did not have the necessary information to decide what. Removing it from the context of his past, it was a perplexing statement indeed. “My Wife is at home, in the lands of Armada.” he said, choosing to decide she had caught the scent of his wife. “You may find shelter there as well. I am Sirius, its Warlord. I’ll lead you there…” He said, turning already. He did not yet know if he would add her to his lost ducklings. But he would not leave her out here in the cold either, battered and worn as she was.

"Speech"