Sirius had not seen much of one of his youngest children since the flood. He knew Stratum was having a difficult recovery, and he worried for his son. He tried to check in whenever he could, but he had not yet sat down and properly spoken with the young wolf.

It was time he did so, to ensure Stratum had everything he needed to find his place in the Armada. To lead the life he wished to, before the Warlord stepped down from his role as leader of the Armada and passed on that flame to his Grandson. So he made his way to Stratum’s den, and called out for his son.

"Speech"

Hearing his father's voice was unexpected, the young male hadn't seen too much of him once the initial terror of the flood had passed. Sequestered in his den, the dun coloured giant had become something of a hermit. Once it became clear that his own idiocy had sealed his fate as a warrior, he'd become even more reclusive. What would the mighty warlord think of his once able-bodied son, no longer able to go out and seek glory through blood as he'd been meant to? The thought plagued him in the small hours of the morning, in the silence of his stone-carved den.

He looked up from the mini forge, where he'd been trying his luck with creating some more delicate pieces. Silver was a tricky metal, the melting point was different from the steel and iron he typically worked with and required more careful attention. "Father," he greeted the man brusquely, dipping his head in a respectful nod. Mercurial gaze drifted back to the red hot metal, watching the shift in colours towards yellow- then white. Time to take them out. Practiced jaws closed around the padded handle of the stone paddle the metal rested on, and pulled it free. The thick muscles of his huge neck bunched to hold his skull steady while he transferred the whole mess onto a narrow shelf beside the forge. His form leaned heavily away from his unsteady hind leg, putting his bulk onto the three reliable limbs instead.

Once the blisteringly hot tray was secure on the work station, he licked his lips and tasted for singed whiskers. No casualties this time. "What brings you to my little corner of the Col?" he broached the question carefully, averting his gaze under the guise of checking on the progress of the small silver inlays. They were purely ornamental, some twisting branches with pointed ends that he aimed to bend into cuffs. He was half tempted to wrap them around some leather bracers. Make ceremonial armour for some wealthy noble who happened through the market.

"Speech"