He doesn't enter alone-- not in such a vulnerable time as this, when he imagines his fur has begun falling out. No, the halfbreed is flanked on either side by a full-blooded Bacchus. To his left, that officer Bjorn or Verstanden or whatever's he's calling himself these days-- and Bitterkeit, the devious uncle of the previous Prime Minister. One peacekeeper and one they have no reason to suspect of anything yet-- perhaps besides a bit of shmoozing, and that's simply in his character.

He wishes it were Rainer. Basma will never admit his fantasies of this day are backed not only by his brother, but a Bacchus he may have... well, it's not important now. The castle is laden in frost, but an imposing monument of their old empire. A promise, they will rebuild. He sits, a shadow of a figure in front of the stonework, raises his head, and howls. This isn't the timid call of his history lecture, or a panicked alarm: it is simply come.

He waits, head high and body blessedly shielded from the wind. Bitterkeit makes his way to where the crowd will establish, and Basma doesn't pay much attention to Bjorn at all. This meeting isn't mandatory perse-- nor has he framed it as such-- but those within the packlands that do not appear will be recorded to his memory in unfavourable fashion.

Once a crowd has formed, Basma begins in rather unceremonious fashion: Rainer is dead.

This isn't entirely true, but there's no proof to dispute it. Basma speaks with a conviction born of birthright, a deep-seated grief he has held since fleeing this land the first time-- it won't be taken again. Approximately two weeks ago he was seen leaving the territory, and considering he founded the bloody pack, I find it hard to believe he would have abandoned it--

Basma glances down at his claws while he waits for the twitch on his face to dissipate. He can see the blood contained in his clear claws, and how small his paws are compared to most others here. Still, he raises his head, and presses on. As an original member and highest ranking citizen present, tradition dictates I lead, in this event of no named successor. Stupid, in his opinion-- though, he supposes, Basma doesn't intend to name an inheritor any time soon. It breeds dissent among your underlings, especially those with the ambition and ability to take charge--

And for one startling second, on the steps of the fortress, Basma imagines this is exactly how it was supposed to happen.

Bitterkeit clears his throat inconspicuously, and Basma takes his cue. This is his destiny-- and if the circumstances aren't ideal... so be it. We will continue to strive for greatness, as we always have. We dedicate ourselves to the pack, just as Rainer had. We are establishing something that will outlast our lifetimes. Slit eyes sweep over the crowd, intensely honest for quite possibly the first time in his life. Is there any more worthy cause?