Interlude I: The Howling Horde and Golden Storm.

Aedhain grimaced as consciousness returned to him, That's the last time I drink that much mead, he mused. Wincing as he sat up, his head crying out In protest. Collecting himself for a moment he gazed around the tent he found himself In.

The first thing he noted was the five other warm bodies around him, each of them a wolf like him, though none were familiar to him. Not exactly that he was bothered by this, the Lands of Ice and Snow were very cold—like their name suggested—thus actions like sharing tents was quite common. Admittedly, Aedhain was somewhat curious whose tent he'd ended up in, though It wasn't exactly Important at the moment.

Doing his best to ignore his aching head, he collected his maille shirt, heavy cloak and weapons, then putting them on, he strode from the tent into the early morning chill of the Lands of Ice and Snow.

Despite the lands name, It was not covered by snow and Ice all the time, even now in early Autumn the ground wasn't touched by any snow, though It was deathly cold.

That was something many didn't know, that while It may not always be covered by snow, It was always cold, or at least slightly chilly, across the Lands of Ice and Snow.

It's especially bad this morning, Aedhain mused, but then that might have been because of the wind coming off the water to their east.

The Howling Horde—a force of over three thousand wolves—was camped alongside the Land of Ice and Snow's south-east coast as they built a great horde of ships. The Howling Horde's Packlord, Toke, was leading them to fertile lands far to the south, If such a land existed of course.

There were legends of Its existence of course, from the great sailing of the foxwolf—Aedhain spat at the thought of his name—and the Great Cannibal, the wolverine Gulo, to ships from the south washing ashore—or so some claimed.

Aedhain himself didn't know what to think.

Sighing, he began to weave his way through various Wolves just starting to go about their early morning business. He personally was making his way for Toke's tent.

As one of the Howling Horde's Packleaders, he had certain duties to see to, especially because he was the Packleader of one of the Horde's sword-packs, elite warriors who led the charge against enemy forces, clearing the way for the young and less experienced wolf warriors. It was a dangerous position, many of the sword-packs died young, slain as they charged well held enemy positions.

"Aedhain, there you are." The rough voice of a female wolf sounded from behind him.

"Raethald," A said, knowing without turning around exactly who was behind him. "To what do I owe the Pleasure of your company?"

"The Packlord wanted all of his Packleaders to know that the ships are almost all built."

Pausing, Aedhain nodded and said. "That is good to hear, but why have another Packleader act as a messenger?"

A snort from behind him clearly told him she found something amusing. "Because I've nothing better to do," She drawled, "And because you intimidate all the couriers sent your way."

Without responding to her teasing, he asked. "How long for everything to be built?"

"The ship-builders estimate a season and a half."

"A season and a half," he mused, nodding. Only another season and a half of waiting and then, things would truly begin. Continuing on his way, he spared one glance to the flag flying over the camp, a flag depicting shattered bones in a pile beneath a howling wolf's head.


The sounds of saws and hammers echoed up even to his employer's mansion, upon Colina del Sol Frívolo, The hill of Frivolous sun. Within the bay of the city of Mélladrao sat a score of ships, all being outfitted for a long, long voyage. Alexander de Mélladrao, the Maestre de Campo of Tercio de Mélladrao watched his future in the Golden Empire wither away.

His position was an honor, he was to be part of the claiming of that continent to the east, none of the beast nations of the West Continent could stand against the Golden Empire—or just Empire—and other Folk nations had been brought to heel.

But truthfully, the Empire's efforts to crown themselves as the West Continent's greatest military force had bled them deeply, Alexander could only shake his head thinking over all those lost lives. And despite It all, none of their enemies had truly been bested, The nations of Freni and Garia still stood, perhaps not as strong as before, but still mighty in their own way, the only beings truly conquered were the disparate groups of foxes, mustelids, rodents and such that lived around the great Folk nations, Vermin and Woodlander, he believed they called each other.

Turning away from the Galleons being constructed, Alexander couldn't help but smile. Perhaps, things will turn out all right.

If things went well, his force might have to fight a few scattered tribes to establish dominance over at least a small part of the Eastern Continent to start.

Smiling softly, he stepped through the doors of the balcony to speak with his employer, while behind him, a flag emblazoned with a fiery sun behind a red rose, flickered in the wind.


A.N: I've got a bit of a quandrey that I'm honestly feeling like putting up to the vote for the readers. For a while now, I've planned for The Tales of Whiteheart to follow a game of thrones type thing with the magic of the world slowly coming back, But I'm conflicted and not entirely sure If I should go through with It or not. I'd like to hear what others think.